


Banana Bread

by gayswampwitch



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, Mall AU, Trans Katya, enemies to lovers to maybe friends, it's a mess, katya's just trying to sell iphones, trixie has unresolved issues but we love her still
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 17:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15635292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayswampwitch/pseuds/gayswampwitch
Summary: Two tech stores, both alike in dignity,In Palo Verde Mall, where we lay our scene,From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,Where civil purchases makes civil hands unclean.Trixie works at a record shop, Katya works at the Apple Store; can I make it anymore obvious?





	1. May

Trixie doesn’t necessarily _ like  _ her job. Nobody is supposed to like their part-time, minimum-wage job. She definitely can’t see herself sorting through old vinyl records and listening to guys with earrings talk to her about Pearl Jam for the rest of her life, but for the time being, it’s not too terrible.

Spin City has a full monopoly on all things vinyl, cassette, and CD in Palo Verde Mall; this meaning they get a large amount of foot traffic from hipsters in various funky hats, teenagers chasing the vintage aesthetic, and senior citizens that haven’t moved on from the ‘golden days’ of audio. Trixie takes a strange sense of pleasure in knowing she’s the lead saleswoman of a dying industry.

In fact, Trixie has made Employee of the Month sixteen months in a row, and she feels her chest puff out with pride every time she passes her portrait and plaque on the wall next to the Country Classics section. But, to be frank, her only competition is Pearl, who spends most of her time napping in the storage room, and Farrah, who has been known to cry when customers ask her questions she doesn’t understand. Trixie doesn’t know how they managed any sales before she joined their floor team, and shutters at the thought of Farrah’s portrait subtitled ‘Employee of the Month.’

“Pearl is really giving you a run for your money this month.” Kim warns her, taking a wide bite out of her disgustingly greasy Sbarro pizza. “The other day I walked in to see if you restocked Loona’s album yet, and Pearl was actually standing upright. Like, on both legs, fully awake. It was incredible. Of course, when I asked if they restocked, she said she’d check the back and then never returned. But like, she was fully conscious when she did all that.”

Trixie gasps and feigns fear.

Dela slaps the palm of her hand against the cheap food court table, and makes a high-pitched noise as she tries desperately to swallow her pad thai. She motions to herself chewing, and tries to make it as obvious as possible that she wants to say something before the conversation shifts. Trixie and Kim wait patiently those few seconds it takes Dela to finally swallow her lunch.

“A-and the other day Farrah was working register and I only heard her complain about her feet  _ once _ . This is real character development.” Dela finally points out.

“I may as well hand over my Employee of the Month title now.” Trixie sighs into her sandwich.

The food court around them is fairly desolate, which is expected for a mall on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s only May, so while college students are now on break, everyone in the public school system would still be forced through another grueling month of education. This is what Trixie calls The Golden Hour: she gets to work full time and doesn’t have to deal with teenage boys.

The only true downside is that Farrah can only work after school, forcing Pearl to be Trixie’s sole companion for the majority of her shift. While two idiots can make a single functioning employee, Pearl on her own only amounts to a corpse in the R&B section. On rare occasions, Shangela will emerge from her office to help with floor sales when they are particularly short-handed - or at least more so than usual.

Their lunch table, and consequently the entire food court, falls into silence as they finish eating. Trixie keeps a steady eye on her watch, glaring at the long hand of it as the minutes tick by far too quickly.

“You think Violet will give me a free refill?” Dela asks nervously, glancing towards the lemonade kiosk across the court. Her fingers fiddle with her Hot Topic lanyard, spinning an enamel pin with her thumb and forefinger.

“Definitely not.” Kim responds confidently.

They all stop to watch Violet stare down at her phone, slumped over the counter and generally looking miserable. Her uniform is particularly horrendous, far more than any other in the mall. While Trixie and Dela are blessed to only have to follow a general dress code, those working at the lemonade kiosk are forced to wear a striped yellow, red, and blue polo shirt - with a matching baseball cap. The entire uniform could not be less well-suited for Violet’s high fashion attitude.

“You're right.” Dela concedes. “I should probably get back to work before Adore and Phi Phi accidentally set the Supernatural section on fire during a fist fight.” Dela stands begrudgingly, taking her time stretching as she does.

“Like you wouldn’t burn down the Supernatural section yourself.” Trixie points out through a mouthful of bread and tofurkey.

“There’s just no goddamn reason for there to be thirteen seasons.” She grumbles, mostly to herself, as she gathers trash onto her tray to throw away.

Dela sulks away with a soft goodbye, off to the escalators to resume her shift.

“I am so glad I don’t have to deal with angsty kids all day,” Kim sighs, “I just have to give teens advice on, like, eye shadow colors.”

“Oh yeah, I would actually lose my shit staring at the wall of those Pop Vinyl figures all day. Their black, soulless eyes would lull me to insanity.” Trixie knows her limit, and it is the twelve foot wall of lifeless action figures staring her down.

“Speaking of black soulless eyes lulling me to insanity,” Kim raises her eyebrows dramatically, letting the words roll off her tongue at a painfully slow pace, “Violet looks hot today. Like, I don’t know, her lipstick color pairs really well with her eyes. I think it’s from the new Fenty collection, Mattemoiselle - I _ know  _ it’s from Mattemoiselle, actually, but I can’t decide if it’s Griselda or PMS.”

“Fenty has a lip shade called PMS?”

“Yeah, it’s subtitle says Moody Brown.”

Trixie purses her lips. “Violet’s a Moody Brown.”

“That would be funny if she wasn’t as white as a farmer’s market in Florida.” Kim responds dryly.

“Yeah, not my best work. I should’ve made a PMS joke while it was still on the table, but it just didn’t feel right. It’s like a hundred straight dudes got to that punchline before I did.” Trixie taps her nails against the side of her unfinished sandwich.

“Seriously, though, what do you think it is? Is it more of a Bold Burgundy or a Moody Brown?” Kim demands.

Trixie pretends to consider for a moment. “Here’s a thought: go and ask.”

“Nevermind, forget I said anything, I’ve never heard of a Violet Chachki, and I’ve certainly never heard of Fenty Beauty By Rihanna before.” Kim lifts her hands up in surrender.

Trixie won’t tell Kim that it’s definitely a bold burgundy. Kim has to come to her own conclusions.

“Is the only gossip you have for me about your unhealthy obsession with staring at Violet’s lips?”

Kim hums for a second, as if considering whether to smite Trixie for calling her out or tell her something juicy. “I may have something.” She decides on airily.

“I’m going to reach over this table and strangle you.” Trixie threatens.

“I happened to have heard through the grapevine - grapevine being the manager at JCPenny’s discussing it with my manager and me eavesdropping behind a stack of beauty blenders - that the Apple store is replacing that kitsch art place downstairs  _ and _ Claire’s.”

“You’re fucking me right now.” Trixie groans.

“Absolutely serious.”

“That’s such bullshit. It’s such an apt illustration of modern capitalism that an actual corporate monster is shutting down a local art collective to expand their brand.” Trixie throws her hands up in anger.

“You’re not going to mourn Claire’s?” Kim asks.

Trixie considers it for a moment, “I mean, rest in peace, I guess. Only the fittest survive, and poor Claire’s got fucked by Hot Topic. It’s Darwinism, really.”

“You say it like Hot Topic outsold them instead of forcibly sabotaging them and committing several instances of fraud, battery, and vandalism.” Kim counts off the many sins of Hot Topic on her fingers.

“Well. They took it like pussies.” Trixie shrugs.

“Literally who are you?” Kim takes the last remaining bite into the crust of her pizza.

“Can I go back to the Apple rant now? Or are you going to continue being a Claire’s sympathizer?”

Kim gives her a hand movement to go ahead, mouth too full to respond verbally.

“It’s like, there’s no reason to open an Apple Store here. There’s already an Apple Store at the Mayfair Mall, do you really need one here too?”

“Mayfair is literally an hour and a half away.”

“If you truly love Apple, you’ll drive an hour and a half to buy a pair of AirPods. Fact.”

“You know, you have an iPhone.”

“Yeah, and I hate myself, so what’s your point?”

Kim sits back for a moment, tapping her lemonade straw against her bottom lip and narrowing her eyes. “No point, I guess. Just an observation.”

“I think it’s just annoying that we’re going to lose business because of this. People will just buy, like, an iPod and bam, I’m unemployed.” Trixie frowns.

“There’s actually no reason for you to be in business now, your entire store is obsolete.” Kim points out.

“But obsolescence is so trendy right now.” Trixie pushes away her sandwich finally, succumbing to her dissipating appetite.

Kim’s eyes shift to her pitifully unfinished tofurkey sub, “You eating that?”

“All yours.”

-

The Apple Store seems to pop up overnight. Spin City has the pleasure of being located at the polar end of the mall, so Trixie never sees the store itself, but she sees what she can only describe as apparitions of it. People in the food court with blue t-shirts and grey lanyards. Customers with white plastic bags that have a huge Apple logo plastered on each side. Even Farrah comes into work fifteen minutes late with a brand new red iPhone X.

It’s driving Trixie mad.

“Look, look, Trixie, it has a portrait mode. Look how cute I look!” Farrah shoves her phone into Trixie’s field of view far too vigorously for someone who hasn’t bought a case or screen protector yet.

“This looks exactly like every other selfie on your Instagram page.”

Farrah gasps softly, turning the phone screen to look at it again. “You really think so? I didn’t even edit this picture yet, that’s so nice of you.”

Trixie has to physically stop herself from rolling her eyes. “I’m going to go switch out the CD on the spreaker.” She mumbles, both looking for a way out of this iPhone X tutorial and hoping to hear something other than The Beatles’ Greatest Hits.

She shuffles through the CDs she’s hoarded next to the speaker system, setting aside the EDM mixtapes Pearl keeps trying to slip into the pile. Her eyes briefly flit to the front door when the bell chimes. It’s a couple of girls in blue Apple shirts, and this time, Trixie doesn't refrain rolling her eyes as she turns her attention back to the pile. She has more important issues to deal with. Like whether she should play Dolly’s  _ Trio _ or  _ Jolene _ .

She weighs the two albums in her hands, considering the sort of mood each one might bring to the workplace. Trio is a great album for girl-power country music, but Jolene is such a classic. In her mind, she runs through each setlist and considers the tracks as individual pieces of the puzzle. Decidedly, she pushes in Trio, mostly because she has a soft spot in her heart for Emmylou Harris.

When she looks back up, the two Apple Store employees are leaning over the front counter, pointing at Farrah’s phone screen while Farrah makes soft noises of awe.

“Oh my God,” Trixie breathes out, quickly striding towards the group of girls. She stops just short of the register, arms crossed.

“Farrah,” Trixie warns her, trying to mimic the voice her school teachers would use when they caught her selling Justin Timberlake posters at recess.

Farrah is immediately sheepish. She withdraws her phone into her back pocket and avoids any eye contact with Trixie or the Apple Store girls. “Sorry, I’m on the clock.” She mumbles.

“Oh, are you only supposed to be discussing technology from the 1960s?” One of the girls snorts, turning her body to face Trixie. She has what is possibly the  _ most  _ menacingly wide grin imaginable, with perfect teeth and dark red lipstick that clashes horrendously with the blue of her shirt. She mentally frames her as a villain from a low-budget superhero movie.

Trixie feels an irrational anger well inside of her. She knows it’s a joke, knows it’s some form of jest, but it just ignites some sort of rage within her. Every rant about Apple she has internalized begins to bubble out of her pores. “No, but it  _ is _ company policy to keep our phones out of sight when we’re with customers. And to keep personal talk down to a limit.” She tells her, expending all her energy to remain courteous and professional.

The other Apple employee turns to Farrah, whose eyes are cast down to the register in shame. “Is she, like, the manager?” Her voice grates on Trixie’s remaining nerves, each syllable drawn out and fried.

“No, but she’s kind of like my work mom, I guess.” Farrah shrugs.

Trixie blinks hard, “I’m not... I’m not your work mom, Farrah.”

“But, I mean, you kind of are. You make me sandwiches sometimes. You even cut off the crusts.”

Trixie thinks about it for a moment, almost concedes that she might be Farrah’s work mom. “I really think this is a discussion you should save for your therapist’s office.” She tells her instead.

“Well,” The villainess begins, “We express our deepest apologies for distracting Farrah from the many customers here that need assisting.”

There’s a beat of silence between them, Trixies’ villain’s eyes shifting all over the store that, aside from them, is entirely desolate.

Trixie makes note that she’s at least four inches taller than this girl, takes a special sense of pride in knowing that she has to crane her neck slightly to address her. She’s genetically superior. “Oh, and I’m sure you have a lot of customers to attend to back at the Apple Store. You know, the one you should be working at right now.” Trixie meant for it to sound much more passive aggressive, but her delivery was harsh and snappy.

The villain’s eyebrows shoot up, as if she hadn't realized how serious Trixie had been the entire time. As if Trixie has ever been anything less than serious about cassette tapes. She looks to her colleague to verify the hostility in Trixie’s voice, but the other employee seems adamant to not intervene in whatever battle they have engaged in.

Her eyes cast back to Trixie as she slips a business card out from the lanyard around her neck. “This is in case you ever want to resume life in the twenty-first century and upgrade your rotary landline to a beautiful iPhone X. It even comes in red now, actually.” She holds it out for Trixie to take.

Trixie stares down at it. It feels like the entire world has stopped to watch her succumb to some corporate foot soldier’s power move, to watch her take this business card without contest. But Trixie is nothing if not petty. Her eyes flit from the business card back to her villain’s eyes in defiance. Her arms cross over her chest, knowing her message is clear:  _ put that disgusting card back where it came from or so help me _ .

She nods like she understands, instead placing it down on the counter in front of Farrah. Her coworker looks uncomfortable, glancing between the two. “Uh, we should go, we only have eight more minutes of break left.” She drawls.

“Oh, right. See ya later, Farrah.” She shoots Farrah with a pair of finger guns - a little inappropriate considering the current political climate, Trixie thinks - and turns to Trixie, “And you, Not-Manager-Lady.” Her smile never falters, and at this point Trixie has to wonder if it’s just her natural resting face. Trixie adds that smile to the list of things she never wants to see again, along with children in Gucci sweaters and unironic bucket hats.

She and her colleague turn to leave, but Trixie is absolutely bursting at the seams. She can’t control herself when she calls out after them, “Have fun selling overpriced technology to working class people! You’re really doing the Lord’s work out here.”

While her colleague continues out the door, Trixie’s villain turns around and throws her hands up in the air. “Oh, I’m going to have fun making lots of sales, because it’s 2018 and not 1938.”

Trixie sneers at her as she leaves the store, feeling the pain of not getting the last word deep in her chest.

“What was that?” Farrah asks softly, almost nervously.

“I hate that woman.” She declares.

Farrah picks up the business card, squinting at it. “Yuh-katherina… Zzzzamosh… ivocka.” She mumbles.

“I hate Yuh-katherina Zamoshivocka.”

Farrah hums to herself. “That just doesn’t sound right. Z… Zamo… oh no, there’s an L. This just complicates things.”

“Hey, actually, we should really talk about these mommy issues.”

-

Trixie spends the next few days replaying the interaction over and over again in her head. She prays and repents to a God she’s not even sure exists, but figures she should at least try to believe in just in case She’s real and just in case She cares about a single outburst directed towards a blood-sucking business. It’s not that she’s sorry about her outburst, she just feels bad about it.

During their bi-monthly meeting, her university counselor had a long talk with her about finding positive outlets for negative feelings so she doesn’t explode on anyone else again. She finds a way to root it back to her childhood trauma like she always does, which is usually the point where Trixie tunes out. Kim has a similar talk with her about how just because you hate everything a single company stands for, doesn’t mean everyone within that company is immediately the devil incarnate .

Trixie will admit to have been searching for a fight, and maybe her anger was somewhat irrational. She is willing to look past Apple’s sins for the sake of the working class.

“I don’t know, I just don’t think my mom, like, understands the concept of -” Dela is three minutes deep into explaining her family drama that seems to get more complicated with each passing moment.

“It’s Griselda!” Kim shouts suddenly, slamming her fist down onto the table.

Everyone at the lunch table freezes, turning to look at Kim. “Uh,” Dela breathes out, looking to Trixie for help deciphering Kim’s outburst.

“Griselda? From Fenty?” Fame asks gently, as if speaking over twenty-eight decibels would cause Kim to go into a frenzy.

“How do you even know what that -” Dela begins, but is interrupted yet again.

“Yes! It’s Violet’s lipstick color! It’s all she’s worn for the past week, and it’s been driving me crazy trying to figure out whether it was Griselda or PMS.” Kim explains.

“Yeah, I bought that for her last week for our first anniversary of working together at the lemonade stand.” Fame beams as if the very mention of it makes her genuinely happy, “You sold it to me, actually. You asked me to describe her eye color and usual eyeshadow choices, and refused to let me buy a different shade.”

Kim is frozen in place, staring at Fame with her eyes wide and mouth agape, “Why didn’t you tell me it was for  _ Violet _ .” She grits out.

“Because it was supposed to be a surprise, and I was afraid you’d blurt it out while ordering your daily lemonade.” Fame defends herself.

Kim blinks hard, “You’re right about that. But you’re not off the hook! You all let me obsess over this for a whole week. And I was the one who picked it out for her. An entire week. I’ve lost sleep!”

Nobody makes eye contact.

“Well, you were right; she looks great in Griselda.” Fame offers, motioning to Violet.

The table turns to look at her all at once to confirm that, yes, Griselda really was a great choice. Violet’s chatting with a customer over the counter with far too much life in her eyes to be talking to someone only trying to buy a frozen strawberry lemonade. Trixie sees the blue shirt, unmistakable shade #184785, and feels her entire brain stutter.

“Holy fuck, that’s her!” Trixie whisper-screams to her lunchmates.

“Who? Who?” Dela asks, just as manic as Trixie feels.

“The Apple employee! The one I was mean to on Thursday!”

“Holy shit, really? The one who absolutely destroyed you in your own store?” Kim moves around in her seat, trying to get a better angle to see her.

“She didn’t destroy me!” Trixie whines defensively, “But yeah, that’s the one.”

“You were mean to her? Katya comes by all the time, she’s so sweet!” Fame seems sincerely scandalized, and Trixie almost feels like she owes her an apology.

“That was Thursday, I’ve reformed since then. I’m a new, nice person.” Trixie insists.

Violet catches her eye, and Trixie immediately averts her gaze. But it’s too late; Violet’s eyes sweep across the table, where three other sets of eyes are staring right back at her.

“ _ Fuck _ , do you think she saw us.” Kim whispers, trying to pretend to resume her sandwich.

“Of course she fucking saw us, you rotted cunt, we were all staring.” Trixie snaps, burying her face in her hands.

“Oh God, now they're both looking.” Dela groans.

Trixie takes a risk glancing back at them, and her eyes immediately clash with Katya’s. In that instant, Trixie realizes that any attempt at civility is for naught because every single bone in her body yearns for discourse. There's no way to describe the way her large intestine feels like it's been set on fire when Katya smiles at her, makes her feel like she's somehow destroying her livelihood just by existing.

She’s just an employee making $7.25 an hour, just like you.

She's just a student trying to pay her way through school, just like you.

Humans are not born intrinsically evil, there is good inside of Katya.

Violet and Katya mutter a few words to each other before they start approaching the table, Violet vaulting over the counter to follow Katya.

“Holy shit, they’re coming, everyone act cool.” Kim whisper-shouts into her sandwich, “Act fucking  _ cool _ .”

Before Violet can even greet them, Fame is up in arms. “Holy shit, Violet, you can’t just leave the stand unattended.” Fame points her chopsticks accusingly at her.

“It’s not like anyone’s trying to buy anything,” Violet shrugs, clearly immune to Fame’s nagging by now.

“What about robbery?”

Violet shrugs again, “As if anyone’s prime target is going to be a shitty lemonade stand in the food court instead of the fucking Gucci store.”

Fame purses her lips, plagued with the knowledge that Violet doesn’t care about this job nearly as much as she does. Her eyes dart from her lo mein, to Violet, and back to the lemonade stand before she’s standing up quickly. The legs of her chair screech against cheap tile, and she jogs back to the kiosk to cover for Violet.

“Anyways,” Violet breathes out, taking Fame’s seat and resuming where she left off in her plate of lo mein. She pretends not to notice Fame glaring at her from the lemonade kiosk’s register.

“Hi Violet, you look nice today.” Kim rushes out in one quick breath.

Violet glances up at her slowly, three noodles hanging out of her mouth. She looks down at her striped polo shirt and back up to Kim with a quizzical eyebrows raised. “Thanks?”

Kim smiles proudly at herself, and Trixie feels a terrible swirl of second-hand embarrassment because, honestly, Kim is a dating disaster without even realizing it.

Katya, who had been previously hovering behind Violet in uncertainty, takes the empty seat next to her when she realizes Violet isn’t going to introduce her. Her eyes settle on Trixie with something terribly mischievous glinting behind a crystal blue that Trixie is reluctant to admit is mesmerizing, “Nice to see you again, Beatrice.”

Trixie feels like she’s about to blackout. She immediately looks to Violet, who had to have told Katya her name, but Violet refuses to look at anything other than her fingers on the chopsticks. There’s something so incredibly disorienting - hurtful , actually - about hearing Beatrice come out of someone’s mouth, probably for the first time since she was sixteen years old. Trixie is sat stunned for a moment longer than she’d prefer.

“You too, Yekaterina.” Trixie returns after stumbling over her own thoughts. She tries to make Yekaterina sound as menacing and icy as possible, but it’s not a very powerful name to begin with.

Katya sits back in her chair, crossing her arms and smiling smugly. She clearly knows Beatrice has more weight for Trixie than Yekaterina does for her, and that drives Trixie mad. There’s a long moment of bone crushing tension as Katya and Trixie stare each other down, either waiting for the other to break and look away.

“Holy shit,” Kim breathes out, and Katya’s eyes immediately snap to her as if she forgot anyone else existed.

“I’m so sorry, I forgot to introduce myself!” Katya’s spine straightens to lean forward, “I’m Katya, I work downstairs at Apple.” She holds out her hand for Dela and Kim to shake.

“Oh, we know who you are.” Dela assures her, and Trixie can feel her cheeks redden at the pure betrayal.

“Really now?” Katya’s eyes scrunch up with her smile as she shifts her attention back to Trixie, “You know, you have this really weird way of flirting.”

“I think I would rather be chemically castrated than flirt with you, actually.” Trixie retorts in possibly the first intelligent thought she’s had this entire interaction.

“Dela! Tell us about Hot Topic!” Kim asks pleadingly before she has to hear Trixie mention her genitals again.

The tension in the air mounts as everyone turns their attention to Dela, who seems to turtle into herself at the pressure. “Uh, it’s okay.”

Kim looks at her incredulously, “Come on, please, there’s always something dramatic happening at Hot Topic.”

Dela considers the inner politics of Hot Topic for a moment, “Well, right now we’re looking for another floor team member because Adore and Phi Phi are terrible, so Sharon asked me to help filter through resumes. I’m between a girl named Blair and another girl whose name on her resume is literally ‘The Vixen.’ Obviously that’s an issue for identification reasons, but I’m kind of into the aura it has.”

“Oh no, is it the Blair who works at Forever 21?” Trixie asks with a sympathetic pout, doing her best to resume life as if Katya weren’t across from her.

“Yeah, actually. How do you know her?”

“Farrah used to work with her at Forever 21, poor thing. I swear, that place takes girls and then spits them out so emotionally fucked.” Trixie has only heard horror stories from Farrah about what it was like to work there, but they were enough to rattle her bones.

Shangela told Trixie enough details about the day she hired Farrah to understand the true Forever 21 turmoil. She said Farrah came into work, put on her lanyard, and cried softly because, “It’s just so quiet and peaceful.” As a manager, Shangela seriously reconsidered the few hires she had made that day.

“Oh, so are you saying Blair might be a Farrah 2.0?” Dela cringes slightly.

“Probably.”

“No offense to Farrah, obviously, but we already have two dysfunctional employees. I’ll probably try to push The Vixen’s application then.”

“Farrah seemed sweet.” Katya says softly in Farrah’s defense.

“Oh, she’s the sweetest.” Dela backtracks immediately, “She’s just a bad employee.”

“Yeah, her heart is a bit too soft for customer service. And her feet are too soft to handle being on the ground for more than forty minutes at a time.” Trixie adds.

Katya nods in understanding.

“So, how do you two know each other?” Kim asks, pointing to Katya and Violet. She talks too quickly, like she’s afraid to have a single lull in conversation for fear of any animosity that may follow.

“We went to high school together.” Violet responds, pushing away Fame’s now empty plate of lo mein.

“We were lab partners.” Katya elaborates. “Violet did the lab reports and I did the actual labs.”

“There was no way I was going to cut open a frog for the sake of science. But Katya’s into that kind of shit.”

“Into animal abuse, hm?” Trixie cocks an eyebrow.

Katya sucks in a breath, “They’re already dead, Barbara.”

Kim makes a noise that falls somewhere between a choking dog and a mewling lemur. “So! The economy sure is trash, right?” She diverts.

“I should get back to work, actually.” Katya tells the table. “It was great to meet you all.”

Trixie nods in agreement, mirroring Katya as she stands up from the table. Trixie crumples up her sandwich wrapper in her hand to throw it away, wishing everyone good luck on their afternoon shifts.

Trixie turns to leave, but quickly stops in her tracks. Her therapist’s words about finding positive coping methods flash briefly in the forefront of her mind, but Trixie’s never been one to take professional advice until it’s too late. She turns around and chases Katya for the few feet she managed to stray from their lunch table. Trixie’s free hand shoots out to grab her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. Katya looks up at her startled, but doesn’t immediately pull away.

Trixie takes a deep, steadying breath. “Just so you know, if you ever call me Beatrice again, I will find your address, go into your home, and cut up all your fucking houseplants or family pictures o-or  _ whatever  _ it is you hold dear.” Trixie’s voice quivers slightly, and she takes in another sharp breath before continuing.

“Trixie-” Kim starts, but is immediately silenced.

“I studied Krav Maga for six years in Milwaukee, and I wouldn’t hesitate to meet you at your car after work and hospitalize you.”

Katya swallows hard.

“Trixie, really-” Dela tries to interject.

“You got it?” Trixie’s nails dig into Katya’s wrist, leaving little crescent shaped indents above her veins.

Trixie expects a number of responses: a frantic nod, a high hum of affirmation, or even a restraining order would be appropriate. But instead, Katya grins. Big, wide, and absolutely blood curdling.

“I mean, if it means you’ll come to my apartment, it might be worth it.” Katya responds.

The adrenaline of confronting Katya catches up to Trixie, quickly rushing to her brain and leaving her light-headed while her body bears the burden of her own weight. Katya can’t even respond to a threat correctly.

Trixie nods, as if to resign herself to the fact that Katya is an untouchable entity that she cannot budge no matter how hard she pushes. She lets Katya’s wrist slip out of her grasp. Her fingers leave pale white stripes in their wake that will eventually fade to a violent red, and possibly bruise where her finger tips dug into the underside of her forearm. She hopes it bruises, hopes Katya wakes up the next morning feeling the soreness of her skin and has to live the rest of the day in mild discomfort.

Trixie turns on her heels to return to Spin City. Her counselor is going to have a field day with this.

She spends the rest of the day feeling off somehow. Like she missed a step going down the stairs, and now she’s stumbling the rest of the way down, just trying not to break all her bones. She tries to focus on discussing Led Zeppelin albums with middle aged men, but her replies feel stunted and she’s not processing words until the moment to respond to them has passed and she’s left in an awkward silence with her customers.

She’s thankful when the clock ticks closer to nine, and she can finally start to close the store. At 9:01, Pearl pulls down the storefront grille halfway with finality as Trixie cashes out and makes sure all the numbers add up. Farrah, despite the fact that her shift ended over an hour ago and she hates closing, inexplicably hangs around to check that all the records are in their respective genres and have remained in alphabetical order over the day.

Ariana Grande plays overhead, Farrah’s pick, as they all work in relative silence. Trixie by no means has a proclivity towards math, even the most basic act of counting feels monstrous to her, so she has to expend all her energy on making sure she doesn’t lose count.

When there’s a knock on the grille, she keeps her eyes on the stacks in front of her. When she hears Pearl quietly conversing with someone else, she continues to thumb out ones. When the soft sound of footsteps approaches, she refuses to divert any brain power from the task at hand .

“ Sixty, eighty, a hundred, one-twenty, one-forty-” Trixie whispers to herself.

“Nine, ten, eleven, twelve-”

“Thirteen, fourteen, fift- jesus fuck, what the fuck .” Trixie slams the stack in her hand back into the table and looks up at the offending party.

It’s Katya, looking out of place and nervous. She flinches at the sudden resounding thwack the money makes against the countertop, and then cringes at herself. Warm embarrassment rises in Trixies cheeks at how easy it is for Katya to throw her off, but she tries to look unbothered by her presence.

“Sorry I just - uh, I don’t know why I thought that’d be funny.” Katya rubs the back of her neck awkwardly.

“Well it sure as fuck isn’t, I have to restart counting this now.” Trixie tells her, restacking the pile of cash she was working on.

“Yeah, I didn’t…” Katya trails off. Her attention is diverted to her shoes, a pair of torn-up Nikes that Trixie can only feel sorry for at this point. “Sorry.”

Trixie looks up across the store at Pearl, who’s pretending to sort through the pop section with Farrah as she watches on with feigned disinterest. She glares at her, hopes Pearl understands the message of  _ why would you let this foul creature into my safe haven _ ?

“So, did you just come to disrupt the closing process?” Trixie turns her attention back to her money, or at least tries to make it seem like her attention has been returned to the money. She thumbs through it without counting, knowing she could never count and hold a conversation with Katya at once. If anything, it's just something to keep her hands busy.

“No, I just wanted to, uh, apologize for earlier. I felt really bad about it afterwards; I should’ve apologized after you, like, threatened the lives of my hypothetical plants. I didn’t realize how sore of a spot it was, Violet just said you hated being called, uh,  _ that _ . So: I’m sorry, Trixie. I shouldn’t have said it, and I should have apologized sooner.”

Trixie’s fingers pause over a ten dollar bill. Katya sounds sincere, which is something that Trixie, although she had vowed to give Katya the benefit of the doubt, was not expecting . She looks at Katya, whose eyes are still trained on her shoes.

“I, uh, I appreciate that.” Trixie returns awkwardly.

Katya looks up at her hopefully.

“Just know if it happens again, I know how to stalk someone on Facebook and pick a lock.”

Katya snorts, nodding in understanding. “Thank you.”

“Seriously though, get the fuck out of my store, we’re closed.” Trixie shoos her away, only the hint of a smile showing to let Katya know that they’re on okay terms for now.

Katya lifts her hands above her head in surrender, “Alright, alright, please don’t call security on me.” She says through a soft laugh as she backs away. She ducks underneath the half-closed grille curtain and goes on her way.

“She’s hot!” Pearl shouts from across the store. “Did you call dibs on that?”

Trixie rolls her eyes, “You can have her, slut!”

Really, she can’t imagine that pairing getting past a first date together, but she won’t stunt Pearl from trying.

She ends up giving Farrah a ride home, although she would have just given her the money for an Uber or a Lyft if she asked for it when her shift ended rather than waiting a full hour to request a ride home. Either way, it was a nice car ride, although Trixie would be reluctant to admit how refreshing a conversation with a seventeen year old is.

When she gets to her own apartment, it’s entirely empty. She knows only a few things about her roommate: she’s hot, she’s tall, and she’s never home. The most Trixie has seen of her lately is in the Dolce & Gabbana spread in the latest issue of Us Weekly, or in the Chanel ad during her Brooklyn 99 marathons on Hulu. Trixie supposes that this is theoretically the perfect roommate, but really, it’d be great to have someone to do facemasks and talk shit with.

On the off chance that Naomi is in Los Angeles and isn’t staying at the Playboy Mansion, or wherever else it is she bides her time at, she brings home a harem of her model friends that Trixie will spend a full evening drinking with (and pretending not to drool over). She guesses it’s Naomi’s way of apologizing for never being home, and that apology is accepted in full.

But, it’s been six months since Naomi has been home - her text mentioned something cryptic about Michael Kors and Paris - and by association, it’s been six months since Trixie has been laid. Having hot, available girls delivered to her apartment for two years has done horrors for her dating life, especially while Naomi is off doing secret projects in other countries. Now if she wants to get fucked, she has to actively seek out women and ask them to come home with her, which is a comparatively terrible inconvenience.

And tonight is just not the night to get dressed up to maybe meet a girl.

Trixie will instead take a relaxing bubble bath, slip into her pink Hello Kitty pajamas, exfoliate, paint her toenails, and fall asleep to reruns of Friends, as she does almost every night. It’s a comfortable routine, which Trixie can recognize as a problem, especially when it robs her of experiences and friendships that exist outside of Palo Verde Mall. Violet continues to hound her about when she’s coming back to Open Mic Night at The Black Orchid, and Trixie continues to give noncommittal shrugs and nervous noises.

Again, facemasks and sugar scrubs just feel so good.

Tonight, she spends extra long in the bathtub with whatever bath bomb Throgy had sold her when she went into Lush earlier that week. It’s something pink and sparkly and very  _ her _ , almost to an offensive degree, but it smells like bubblegum and roses so Trixie can’t be upset.

Trixie considers Katya for a moment, as she’s submerged under almost too hot bath water. She could get used to hating Katya, she thinks. Maybe it’s just where their relationship will fall, a dynamic that neither bath nor extensive therapy session could solve. And maybe that’s okay. Trixie can learn to comfortably hate her.


	2. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trixie stares at her for a second longer with pursed lips and tired eyes, wondering what’s gone wrong in either of their lives to lead them here. Katya returns her stare with an exuberance that physically drains Trixie of any and all energy. She exhales deeply and turns back to the merchandise.

May comes and goes. Slowly, children are leaking out of school and coming to hang out at the mall on _weekdays_. Trixie finds herself forced to entertain gaggles of teenage boys nervously trying to impress her with talk of The Eagles, Guns N’ Roses, and how terrible modern music is. Trixie can only smile and nod for the sake of the sale.

Farrah starts working longer hours, which is great for the overall functionality of the store, but not too great for Trixie’s sanity. With Farrah comes Dusty. While admittedly sweet and charming in a very awkward teen way, having her best friend around just isn’t helping Farrah’s already abysmal work ethic.

“Hey Trixie!” Dusty greets as she strolls into the store, two lemonades in hand.

“Dusty,” Trixie sighs exasperatedly, “ _Please_ tell me you have a home.”

Dusty throws her head back in laughter. “Is this not my house? Are you not my mom? Is Pearl not my drunk uncle who spends his days passed out on the couch?”

“God, I fucking hope not, but I have a feeling I’m dead wrong.” Trixie pouts. Dusty hands Trixie the extra lemonade, which she is sure was bought with the intent to give to Farrah. Now, however, she supposes it’s meant to serve as an apology for forcing her through all of this buffoonery.

“But the real question is: who’s my dad?” Dusty leans her hip against the counter Trixie is tending to with a level of casualness that lets Trixie know she is _way_ too comfortable here.

“I don’t know, but I haven't received a single cent in child support from him. Y’all are expensive, you know.” Trixie takes a long sip of the lemonade, and is momentarily surprised when it’s strawberry flavored; definitely meant for Farrah.

“My money’s on Katya. There’s no way I got my rebelliousness from _you_.”

Trixie sputters on her strawberry lemonade, suppressing the violent cough that threatens to wrack through her body. “Rebelliousness?” Trixie squeaks out in disbelief, “She works at _the Apple Store_. That’s, like, epitome of conformity.”

Dusty shrugs, “I don’t know, I just get a punk vibe from her.”

Trixie rolls her eyes. If Dusty wants to believe Katya is punk just because she has curly hair and tattoos, then that’s fine. She’s wrong, but it’s _fine_.

Against her prolific prayers, Katya has become at bi-weekly occurrence for Trixie. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Katya joins them on her lunch break, always eating the same three meat pizza that is simultaneously revolting - on the premise of Trixie’s ideals - and mouthwatering - on the premise of Trixie’s secret fantasy of raiding a deli in a ravenous fit of passion. Trixie is thankful that their lunch schedules don’t line up on any other days, otherwise she may find it far more difficult to be civil with Katya. Aside from the general tension that seems to hang in the air around them and a semi-insulting joke here and there, Trixie has remained as kind and courteous as she possibly can.

“Dusty!” Farrah cries, emerging from somewhere off to the left.

Dusty grins widely, spreading her arms out to hug Farrah. Next to her, Farrah looks like a cast member of the upcoming season of Little Women: LA. With Dusty’s lace-up platform boots, and maybe without, there is at least a full foot difference between the two. Even Trixie, who is often used to being the tallest in the room (when Kim isn’t also in that room), feels like she missed her big growth spurt at age eight when standing next to her.

“No lemonade for me?” Farrah pouts up at her incredibly tall friend.

Dusty’s eyes widen, briefly looking to Trixie and her lemonade. “Uh, no, yeah, here.” She hands Farrah her remaining lemonade.

Farrah takes it with a smile, but quickly frowns when she takes a sip of it. “Just regular?”

Dusty’s brain visibly stutters for a second, and Trixie has to suppress her laughter at this blatant show teenage of cluelessness. “I - I - I just forgot, I guess.”

“That’s okay.” Farrah brushes off. She turns to Trixie, “I think I’m ‘gonna take my lunch break right now, is that okay?”

“Your shift started thirty minutes ago.” Trixie points out.

Farrah blinks absently. “And?”

“Nothing, I guess. Have fun.”

“Okay, see you in fifteen, we’re going to eat Chick-Fil-A and watch cute boys.” She pulls Dusty out of the store by the wrist, waving goodbye to Trixie as she does.

Trixie snorts to herself; _Dusty_ watching _cute boys._ Trixie prides herself on an excellent gaydar, and Dusty is a monster of an earthquake on her Richter scale. That is - unless there’s some sort of punk subculture centered around dressing like a huge lesbian, while also practicing incredible heterosexuality.

“Did Farrah just say she and Dusty are going to go watch cute boys?” Pearl asks, approaching from whatever nap crevice she crawled out of.

“Yeah, poor Dusty.”

“Poor fuckin’ Dusty.” Pearl agrees.

 

-

 

The energy at the lunch table is off somehow. Nobody is truly present. Fame is watching a beauty guru draw Jerry Seinfeld on her eyelids, Kim is blankly staring at Violet from across the food court (probably naming all seven of their children), and Dela is just pushing orange chicken around her plate. Trixie just wants to have a nice, relaxing conversation with her friends, but none of them seem to share that sentiment. Today, Shangela is helping out with sales for no reason other than her own boredom, and it’s got Trixie even more on-edge than usual.

When eavesdropping on the three tweens at the next table over discussing their Harry Potter fan theories no longer satiates Trixie’s need for socialization, she disrupts the static silence of the table. “You okay, Dela?”

Dela sighs into her chicken. “It’s just Hot Topic stuff.”

“I am begging you with my heart _and_ my soul to tell me about it.” Trixie insists. From next to her, Kim blinks out of the girl-induced trance she had lulled herself into to shift her attention to Dela.

Dela mixes her chicken in with her fried rice, reluctantly conceding to discuss the drama that plagues her. “Well, we finally got our hires. Sharon didn’t mention she was also hiring her daughter, which is, like, literally nepotism. But whatever, I don’t really care about that. It’s the fact that now I have to train _two_ new hires instead of just one. And now the whole store feels kind of… weird.” Dela huffs in frustration.

“Weird?” Kim echoes.

She purses her lips in thought. “Vixen has this, like, raw tension that follows her around. She’s always ready to fight, always ready to confront whatever is bothering her. And that, combined with whatever batshit crazy energy Phi Phi has going on? It's so intense.”

“So, that’s what’s bothering you?” Trixie asks, not necessarily sure which of the many issues Dela has presented to them is troubling her.

“No, no, that’s not the problem. The problem is I found them making out in the fitting room today. It was like watching a cheetah eat an antelope, except they were both the cheetah.”

“Oh wow.”

“Jesus Christ.” Kim breathes out.

Even Fame looks up from her YouTube tutorial to grimace.

“Yeah, so I don’t really know how that happened, but… It did, I guess.” Dela drops her chopsticks and leans back in her chair with a defeated frown.

“What about the other hire? The daughter?” Fame questions, popping out one of her earbuds to half-commit to the conversation.

“Oh, Aquaria’s fine. She’s kind of awkward, but she catches on fast and works hard. She’s already more functional than Phi Phi and Adore combined.” Dela seems as pleased with having one other functioning employee as she can be, considering the circumstances.

“Is she cuuuuuute?” Kim asks, smiling devilishly. “Because sources say Trixie’s pussy is drier than the eczema on my knees.”

Trixie elbows her in the ribs, eliciting a high-pitched whimper from Kim. “I do _not_ need whatever spooky offspring Sharon has birthed into the world.”

“You can’t be so quick to judge.” Kim, hand clutching her left side and pouting, chastises.

“The only resemblance to Sharon is the blonde hair, to be honest. Sharon wants to watch the world burn, while Aquaria just wants to make sure the clearance t-shirt display is organized.” Dela assures her.

“But is she _cute_?” Kim pesters.

“I mean, yeah, all girls are cute in their own right.”

Kim narrows her eyes menacingly, “Cut the twenty-first century self-love rhetoric; Is. Aquaria. Cute.”

“Okay! Fine! She’s very cute!” Dela surrenders, throwing her hands in the air.

Kim smiles triumphantly, turning to Trixie. “There you have it: totally fuckable girl in your area, waiting to be swept off her feet.”

Trixie sucks her teeth in dissatisfaction, sinking further into her seat.

“Do you want to see her Instagram?” Dela offers. She’s already fishing her phone out of her pocket to pull it up.

Kim leans forward excitedly. “Yes! Show me Trixie’s new girlfriend!”

Trixie grumbles out a protest that goes altogether unheard by her matchmakers. Dela slides the phone across the table for Kim, who grabs it with eager hands. Trixie tries to only seem mildly interested when Kim crowds into her space to share the screen.

She’s cute; Trixie will give her that. Her page is full of sunsets, flowers, and glitter eyeliner. It’s an aesthetic that Trixie can wholeheartedly support.

“So?” Kim prods. Her fingers impatiently swipe through all the scenic pictures to linger on the selfies.

“So?” Trixie arches a single eyebrow, making it as clear as possible that she won’t cooperate.

“So: are you going to pursue her?” She elaborates.

“Maybe when you ask Violet out on a date.”

Kim snaps her mouth shut. She hands Dela back her phone in silence, nodding in defeat. “Guess both our pussies are going to be hungry forever.”

“I suppose so.” Trixie know that she won’t be able to use Kim’s hopeless crush as a scapegoat forever, but she’s going to abuse it while she can.

“You’re both useless, I do not understand lesbians at all.” Fame grumbles from behind her phone screen.

Trixie and Kim both shrug.

The table once again falls into silence. Trixie, having already eaten a large breakfast that has kept her full thus far, keeps herself busy by playing Candy Crush. She’s on the same level she’s been stuck at for days. When she inevitably runs out of lives again, she almost considers buying another with her hard-earned money. But before she can commit to taking her credit card out of her wallet and typing in the numbers, a notification pops up.

 

**Farrah**

1:29  PM: hi i know ur break doesn’t end for another 10 but can u please come back

 

**Trixie**

1:31 PM: ?????? For why

 

**Farrah**

1:31 PM: pearl told me i can’t tell u why bc then u’d never come

 

**Trixie**

1:31 PM: What does that mean

1:32 PM: I hate you, on my way

 

Trixie keeps the goodbyes to her lunchmates swift and curt in fear that any time she wastes is time for this situation - whatever it may be - to escalate beyond fixing. She speed walks back to the store as her mind runs through a cacophonous medley of scenarios. A record player being set on fire during a demonstration for a customer, Shangela tripping over Pearl’s sleeping body and breaking both of her legs, Farrah stabs her own eye out with a mascara wand; with the amount of stupidity present, the possibilities are endless.

So, when she gets there, she is both upset and relieved that there is no immediately visible problem.

“Heyyyyy, Trixie.” Farrah greets her nervously. Pearl stands next to her, looking far less concerned with whatever has run amuck.

“Where is the fire?” Trixie demands.

“Okay, well, you’re not gonna like this, but -” Farrah starts, but Pearl, sensing Farrah’s ability to tiptoe around an issue coming into play, quickly cuts her off.

“Hot Apple Girl is here.” She says simply.

“She refused to be helped by anyone else but you.” Farrah adds.

Trixie sighs deeply. This is far worse than any electrical fire. “Where is she?”

“She’s near the back, with Dusty. They’re talking about bands I’ve never heard of.” Farrah motions vaguely towards the far end of the store with an apologetic smile.

Trixie can see Dusty’s towering figure by the country classics, standing tall like a homing beacon. Beside her, almost looking just as dwarfish as Farrah, is Katya. Trixie’s internal reaction to seeing Katya is immediate; it’s a churning stomach, warm cheeks, and a new tension that settles somewhere deep in her shoulder blades.

Before Trixie can even get ready to tend to Katya, Pearl taps the inside of Trixie’s wrist to get her attention. “By the way, I think I’m ‘gonna ask her out.” She says lowly.

“Katya?”

“Yeah. Is that okay? Because I can, like, not, if you think you’re gonna hit that.” Pearl assures her.

“What? Ew, no, you can totally ask her out. She’s free game.” Trixie feels a vague nausea sneaking up on her. She can’t say for certain if it’s at the suggestion of her and Katya together, at having to attend to whatever nonsense Katya is about to spring on her, or at the still lingering image of Phi Phi sucking face with some girl in a Hot Topic fitting room.

“Thanks dude. I’ll let you know how the sex is.” Pearl promises her, patting her back.

“Literally do not do that.” Trixie scrunches up her nose in disgust, but Pearl has already tuned out of the conversation.

Trixie looks back to Katya, and finds herself scowling as some sort of knee-jerk reaction. She closes her eyes, taking these few seconds to mentally prepare herself for the amount of restraint it may take to not beat Katya’s ass. She gets the faint sense of being a lamb lead to slaughter as she approaches the two.

Dusty sees her first, smiling wide and waving. When Katya follows Dusty’s sightline, it’s with eyes that are too jubilant to be here just for a Lady Gaga album and that blindingly white grin Trixie has come to see in her nightmares.

“Trixie! I’m here to discover the beauty of living in the 1730s.” Katya declares proudly. From next to her, Dusty chokes out a laugh, but stops abruptly when she sees the death glare Trixie is shooting at her.

Trixie shakes her head at Katya defiantly. “If you think, even for one second, that I’m going to attend to you, you are dead wrong.”

Katya glances around the store before looking back to Trixie. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were in the business of refusing customers!” Her voice is as close to shouting as one could possibly get without _actually_ shouting, and Trixie feels hot panic rush through her.

She whips her head around the store, eyes immediately falling on Shangela, who’s giving her a dangerous look from the register. Trixie, in her mind, curses every god she can name for sending Katya to Spin City on the same day Shangela is helping out with sales.

Trixie closes her eyes and counts down from ten - it’s one of the three useful mechanisms she’s learned from her time with the university’s counseling services. When she opens them back up, she likes to think the world around her shifts or has become softer in some way, despite there being no visible change. It’s more so wishful thinking than anything else. She smiles, large and fake, at Katya, “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, how can I help you?”

“Oh my God, you broke her.” Dusty breathes out, and Trixie ignores her.

Katya smirks up at Trixie, too smug for her own good, “I’m not sure yet, I was hoping you could show me around and we could go from there.”

“Are you looking for the hardware capable of playing the music, or the music itself?” Trixie asks. She tries to mentally superimpose the face of a forty year old suburban mom over Katya’s to make this entire process much easier.

“Both! If I get the actual music player, I’m going to have to obviously get music too.”

Trixie can’t tell if Katya’s just pestering her for fun, but either way, the all-seeing eyes of Shangela are upon her. “Well, if you’ll follow me to our tech aisle, we can get started.”

Trixie leads Katya across the store to the products lining the far left wall. She motions vaguely to the aisle as if it might speak for itself. “So, here you’ll find everything you’re looking for.” Trixie takes a few cautious steps away from Katya, dreaming, hoping, and praying that she can slip away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She trails off.

“No, actually, I think I would _love_ to hear your opinion on each make and model.” Katya insists.

Trixie nods because, honestly, she didn’t think she’d be able to get away that easily anyways. “So are you looking for cassette, vinyl, or CD?”

“I don’t know yet.” Katya responds, and Trixie can see her lifespan shortening before her own eyes.

“That’s okay!” She lies through her teeth, “We’ll just review every single product in this store until my legs give out and my heart stops.”

Katya wheezes out a raucous laugh, bobbing her head excitedly. “That’s it! That’s the spirit!”

Trixie chances a glance at Shangela, who is still watching her with a cautious eye. Quickly, Trixie turns back to the products lining the wall. She’s not going to lose Employee of the Month just because Katya has it out for her.

“So, if you’re looking for cassette, we have the classic Sony Walkman. It comes with compatible headphones and a single copy of Abbey Road by The Beatles. It’s probably our best selling cassette player on nostalgia alone, despite being about as reliable as it was in the 80s.” Trixie pulls its box out of the shelf to show Katya, who seems to look on with genuine interest.

“And, to stay as true to its period as possible, you use it to play pirate shanties from the 1600s, right?” Katya asks, trying to suppress a smile. “You know, like, _what do we do with a drun-ken sailor, what do we do with a drun-ken sailor, wh-what_ -” She cuts herself off with her own wheezing laughter.

“Ha. Ha.” Trixie rolls her eyes, and slides the box back into its spot. She moves further along the aisle, skimming over the rest of the cassette and CD players to get to the vinyl section. If she has a car, she probably isn’t interested in a CD player anyways.

“Oh, yes, your phonographs.” Katya claps her hands together. “Can’t wait to play some of those Beach Boys by the fire and listen to a newscast about the Vietnam War and how LBJ is ruining this country.”

“You know, I hate you.”

“I know.” Katya grins.

Trixie stares at her for a second longer with pursed lips and tired eyes, wondering what’s gone wrong in either of their lives to lead them here. Katya returns her stare with an exuberance that physically drains Trixie of any and all energy. She exhales deeply and turns back to the merchandise.

“Anyways, we have some pretty big names in vinyl here. Victorla turntables are our best seller because they come in a bunch of different colors and are pretty affordable. The most high quality turntable is the Audio-Technica, but it’s three hundred dollars. Our best record player, according to me, is the Crosley.” Trixie approaches the record player they have open for customer demonstrations.

“Oh, according to you, huh?”

“Absolutely. It’s more reliable than the Victorla, but more affordable than Audio-Technica. Plus, it’s a lot prettier than the Audio-Technica.” Trixie does her best to sell this product to Katya, despite being sure it’s for naught. Trixie is positive she’s going to go through her entire spiel, just for Katya to buy Tic Tacs or a pack of gum at the register instead.

“Wow, I think this is actually the exact record player Marie Antoinette used before she was, you know, beheaded.” Katya feigns awe for a split second before giggling softly at her own joke, which seems to be the general theme for this sale.

Trixie groans. “I am so glad I could be here to listen you say the same joke over and over again, but using a different historical backdrop each time.”

“I think I’m clever.” Katya shrugs.

There’s a lingering silence between them. Katya moves closer to the Crosley, mouth scrunched to one side in thought. Trixie takes this dip in conversation to demonstrate the abilities of the Crosley and _hopefully_ hone in on this possible sale. Trixie picks up one of the records propped up next to the display, and gingerly places it on the turntable. She moves the needle, adjusts the volume, and hopes the Crosley will sell itself at this point.

Neither of them speak until halfway through the first song on the record. Trixie stands off to the side watching Katya contemplatively stare down at the spinning record. Her hair is in a half-hearted ponytail, curly strands hanging out around her neck and her face where it’s just _barely_ too short to be put up. Trixie, in her mind, goes through the motions of putting Katya’s hair up for her in a way that catches all the loose strands of hair. With the right brush, she’s _sure_ she could manage to comb it all back. Trixie had always wanted curly hair, so it’s especially upsetting to see Katya treat hers with so little care.

“I think I’ll take one.” Katya announces.

Trixie’s eyes widen in surprise, and she blinks back the daydream of brushing soft, dirty-blonde hair. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, do they come in red?” Katya looks to Trixie, who has not tried in the slightest to hide the shock in her face. “Did you really think I was just coming in to bother you?”

Trixie sputters for an instant, “No! I mean, yes I did. I really didn’t think you were going to buy anything over three dollars.”

“You underestimate me. I am, in fact, a paying customer.” Katya smiles proudly.

“Well, uh, I can show you some of the colors the Crosley comes in, and we can decide on a model.”

“Oh, _we_? Now you want to be my shining customer service representative?” Katya teases.

“Oh honey, if you’re going to be contributing this much to my commission sales, I will laugh at every single one of your terrible jokes.”

Katya’s laugh echoes through the store, and a few other customers give her a fleeting look of annoyance.

She ends up with a cream-colored model, despite Trixie’s insistence that she could order it in red for her and have it in-store within the month. Katya only shrugged and told her cream might go better with her home decor anyways.

“I should get some actual vinyl discs while I’m here, shouldn’t I?” Katya says as an afterthought while Trixie has already begun to ring her up at the register.

“That’s literally the most important part of the record.” Trixie responds, “You want me to hold the turntable up here while you grab your records?”

Katya nods. “That’d be great, actually.”

“And if you don’t find what you want, I can request it for you. As long as it’s not too absurd and obscure.”

Katya nods in acknowledgement, beginning her journey through their vast collection of vinyl records.

Trixie absently watches her as she scours the aisles for music. It would be shallow of her to say that Katya might be a decent person _after_ she’s bought at least two hundred dollars worth of products - Trixie still feels that hatred for Katya deep in her spine. Buying a vinyl record player does not suddenly make Katya her friend, or even a good person for that matter.

She watches as Pearl stops her in the middle of the pop aisle. She can’t hear what they’re talking about, but she can piece together the conversation in her mind. She sees Katya’s cheeks flush a soft pink, and Trixie wonders _how_ Pearl’s sedated charms always work on the ladies. When she sees Pearl lean in closer to whisper something into Katya’s ear, she gets the stark feeling that she’s intruding on a private moment. She looks back to the storefront to watch Dusty try to juggle three headphone packages in front of Farrah instead.

“I got it,” Pearl tells Trixie triumphantly, suddenly by her side.

Trixie’s eyes linger on Dusty just long enough to see her drop all three headphone packages - she really should tell Dusty to stop - before turning to Pearl. “Her number?”

“Hell yeah. We’re going on a date this Saturday. I’m gonna get _super fucking laid._ ” Pearl fist pumps.

“I absolutely do not need to know about that.” Trixie’s face bunches up in an exaggerated grimace . “But good for you, maybe this is the moment you learn about monogamy.”

Pearl snorts out a laugh, “Yeah. Monogamy. Me. Monogamous. That’s very funny.”

Trixie laughs too, because that does sound ridiculous. “You got me there.”

Pearl leaves to join Farrah in watching Dusty’s attempt at juggling. Shangela must have already left the store, and Trixie wishes she had been more aware of her departure so she could have started to curse out Katya sooner.

When Katya does return, it’s with three vinyl records in hand. A Pink Floyd album, a Fleetwood Mac album, and a David Bowie album.

“I would commend your choice on music, but this is the most basic vinyl set I’ve ever seen. Like, I think I’ve rung up orders with these three albums a thousand times before.” Trixie tells her, scanning each barcode.

Katya grins, “Oh yeah? Maybe it’s because this is literally the extent of the variety you have. It’s just Pink Floyd, Fleetwood Mac, and David Bowie over and over again in every aisle.”

“Oh bitch, don’t try it. We have over six hundred artists here, and I will not stand for your slander.” Trixie shakes her head.

“Sorry, but there’s not enough variety until you have Carly Rae Jepsen _and_  Mötley Crüe.” Katya tells her, like it’s simple math.

Trixie’s fingers pause over the register. Do they really not have Carly Rae Jepsen? She mentally adds it to the list of albums she needs to order for next month’s shipment. “Your total is two hundred and forty dollars, and thirty-two cents.”

Katya winces, but shoves the chip of her credit card into the payment terminal anyways. Trixie wants to ask what exactly possessed her to spend an entire paycheck on a record player. Is it a treat yourself sort of thing? Was her paycheck especially fortuitous this past week? Does she just _really_ like David Bowie, Fleetwood Mac, and Pink Floyd?

Trixie doesn’t ask.

There’s the awkward moment between her and Katya, one that exists between Trixie and all of her customers while they wait an obscene amount of time for the order to process. “You know you’re a traitor to your kind, right? Might as well hand in your letter of resignation to the Steve Jobs fan club.” Trixie says to fill the silence.

“I am,” Katya agrees, “My boy Steve will just have to find it in his deep, dead heart to forgive me and my sins against iTunes.”

“Pray and repent, I guess.” Trixie nods off-handedly as the order finally processes.

She hands Katya her receipt and tells her to have a nice day, as per her customer service training.

Pearl slides up next to her once Katya is out of sight, probably to brag about how hard she’s going to get fucked this Saturday. Trixie’s a little bit jealous of Pearl. Not because she’s going on a date with _Katya_ , that’d be ridiculous, but that Pearl is going on a date in general. She has the god-given confidence to just walk up to girls and ask them out on dates - and then those girls actually say yes! It’s not fair that Pearl can fuck any girl and then break her heart, while Trixie, who craves hand holding and dates at The Cheesecake Factory, has to suffer alone in her apartment.

It’s just not right, from a moral standpoint.

 

-

 

**Trixie**

**8:45 PM:** Meeting in 30 after we all close! Pearl went on a date with Katya, but refuses to talk about it until she has an audience so she doesn’t have to tell the story more than once.

 

**Violet**

**8:46 PM:** What???? They went on a DATE??? Like…. TOGETHER???

 

**Kim**

**8:46 PM:** i’ll be there, i have to here about it

**8:46 PM:** hear* sorry im esl

 

**Fame**

**8:47 PM:** Group gossip session? That’s kind of mean :(

**8:47 PM:** I mean I’ll be there but I’m not going to be happy about it

 

**Dela**

**9:10 PM:** sry just saw this, will be there :)

 

**Pearl**

**9:11 PM:** y did u add me to this groupchat i don’t need 2 be here

 

-

 

When Trixie, Pearl, Farrah, and Dusty reach the food court, everyone is already there waiting for them. Farrah and Dusty had both insisted on coming along, despite Trixie protesting that it might be an 18+ story. To which, Dusty pulled out a very fake ID that claimed she was a twenty-four year old from Florida, and demanded entrance into their storytime. Trixie, at that point, gave up any attempt to stop them from coming.

She had been boiling alive all day in the knowledge that Pearl and Katya went on a date. She felt as if her skin was flaking off in layers every time Pearl refused to talk about it. Trixie was sure she’d finally give in once Farrah had whined enough, but they had all severely underestimated Pearl’s ability to tune out everything around her.

“Fucking finally!” Violet exclaims when she catches sight of the group.

Trixie and Dusty have to pull up chairs from another table to sit with the others, though everyone is now somewhat uncomfortably close.

Everyone immediately turns to Pearl expectantly, who responds with her signature blank stare.

“What, are we getting into it right away?”

“Yes!” The table says in almost perfect unison.

“Okay, fine.” Pearl concedes. She leans further back in her chair, committing to getting comfortable before she discusses The Date. “So, we had been texting since I got her number, which was on Thursday. I asked her out, but she sort of took the date planning initiative. I was probably just going to ask her to come over to watch Netflix or something, and then we’d fuck on my couch. So it was better that she planned it, I guess.”

“Actual Prince Charming.” Violet mumbles sarcastically. If Trixie remembers properly - and she definitely does - Violet and Pearl had a very brief fling last summer, one that only existed in storage closets and bathroom stalls.

“Yeah.” Pearl responds off-handedly, brushing off the comment. “Anyways, she took me to a screening of some movie from the eighties at a hipster theatre.”

“What movie was it?” Kim prods.

“I don’t remember.”

The whole table groans.

“You can’t do this. You’re so fucking bad at storytelling. I can’t imagine the mood between the two of you without knowing what fucking movie it was.” Violet throws her hands up in anger.

“I don’t know! The Star Wars guy was there. Uh, robots?” Pearl does her best to remember literally any aspect from the movie.

“What? Was it literally just Star Wars? Did you guys just watch Star Wars?” Dusty grasps desperately at straws that hardly exist.

“No, it was something else.”

“Was it the new Pacific Rim?” Dela tries, but Pearl shakes her head.

“No, it was like human-ish robots, not big robots.”

The table sits in what few clues Pearl was able to supply them. Everyone is playing their own private game of detective in their heads, running through the filmography of every cast member in Star Wars and any film produced in or around the eighties. It’s Trixie who pieces it together.

“Blade Runner!” Trixie shouts, like an old lady at the community bingo tournament.

“Yeah! It was that.”

Farrah scoffs from next to her, “She takes you out to see a movie, and you really only remember the dude from Star Wars and robots?”

“It was boring, and I was busy counting the ways I was going to get fucked that night. Doggy-style, missionary, oral but we do that thing where she puts her leg -” Pearl counts them off on her fingers, and clearly had a full arsenal of sexual acts to name had Trixie not stopped her.

“Please, not in front of the children!” Trixie begs, motioning towards Dusty and Farrah.

“They’re fine,” Pearl insists, “Dusty, look me in the eyes and tell me you’ve never fucked.”

Dusty turns a soft shade of pink and opens her mouth to respond, but Violet stops her before she can. “What if instead of harassing minors about their sex lives, you continue the story.”

Pearl gives her an annoyed look, but nods nonetheless. “Fine. The movie ended at like one in the morning, so we went to IHOP and had pancakes.”

“Aw, one-in-the-morning pancakes,” Fame coos softly.

Pearl doesn’t seem nearly as wooed at the idea as the other girls. “She spent most of it talking about theories about the movie. Which I think is dumb; it’s a movie, just ask the director on Twitter or whatever. Start theorizing about real shit like the aliens or the government.”

“Disagree, but go on.” Kim, a frequenter on the Twin Peaks forums, says.

“So, it’s the end of the date, she drives back to my place. We get there, she walks me to the door, and I’m like ‘Wow, I’m going to get fucking rawed tonight.’ And you know what? I didn’t get rawed.”

The table gasps.

“I kissed her, and then asked if she wanted to come up to my apartment. And she said no.” Pearl continues. Trixie doesn’t say she totally called their demise as a couple, but she definitely thinks it.

“But what did she say _exactly_.” Farrah demands.

“Yeah, and what tone was it in?” Kim bandwagons.

Pearl makes a high-pitched sound of uncertainty, “I don’t know, man, she just seemed really nervous and awkward about the whole situation.”

Violet pouts. “Poor Katya. Just wanted a nice date with a pretty girl, but ended up with a total dick-monster.”

While Trixie doesn’t want to feel for Katya or give her any sympathy, she has to admit there is nothing more tragic than putting so much effort into a date for someone who ultimately doesn’t care.

“Where’s that level of compassion for _me_? My pussy remains unfucked.” Pearl whines, but everyone either rolls their eyes or groans in response.

“I wish someone would take me out on a nice date. I don’t even have to get railed afterwards, I just miss being in a relationship.” Violet grumbles. Trixie’s eyes flit to Kim, who immediately looks back at her with wide eyes. Trixie can see her self-destructing on the inside.

They are lesbian disasters, she realizes. Fame was absolutely right.

“I wonder why Katya didn’t mention it to us. I thought we were getting really close.” Fame sighs, dramatically resting cheek on her palm.

“Maybe she was embarrassed about it or something.” Dela offers.

Fame considers it. Trixie’s always thought Fame’s downfall would be her own sensitivity, and she still stands by this theory. “Maybe.” She acknowledges.

“I just can’t believe she said no.” Pearl has nothing if not an ego eight times the size of her own heart.

“She could’ve just been on her period.” Trixie theorizes.

The table looks at her quizzically.

“Oh, she’s serious.” Violet says after a moment.

“What?” Trixie asks cautiously, not quite sure what she’s done wrong.

Kim leans in closer to Trixie, knitting her eyebrows, “You… don’t know?”

“Oh my God, are you guys all just going to vaguely refer to this secret that I don’t know? What’s the issue? What am I missing?” Genuine frustration rises in Trixie.

Dela is the one to take initiative to tell Trixie, “Katya’s trans, babe.”

Trixie’s jaw drops, “Holy shit, seriously?”

Violet nods, “Yeah. I went to school with her when she was like… Brian.”

“I didn’t even realize, she’s like…” Trixie doesn’t know how to not be offensive.

“Yeah.” Kim agrees, relieving Trixie of having to finish her sentence. “I didn’t know until she mentioned it while I was selling her foundation.”

“Really? Nobody else noticed the Adam’s apple?” Fame cringes at herself as soon as it’s out of her mouth, quickly adding a follow-up. “Is that offensive? To point that out?”

Nobody at the table knows.

“This is a disastrous conversation and I think it should stop.” Trixie asserts, rightfully so.

The group nods in agreement.

Violet is the one to step forward with new topic. “Instead, let’s talk about Open Mic Night this Wednesday. _Please_ tell me you’re coming, Trixie. Your talents are wasted in your shower.”

Trixie sinks into her seat. “You’re just saying that because you get half-off on nachos if you bring a friend.”

Violet rests her hand on Trixie’s arm, “I’m saying it because you’re talented _and_ I get half off my nacho order.”

“I don’t know, tomorrow I have a, uh… a dentist appointment.” Trixie pulls her arm away from Violet.

“At eleven PM?”

“Yeah. Night dentists. They’re super trendy nowadays, with the economy like this.” Trixie’s face heats up at being caught in her lie.

Violet makes a large show of rolling her eyes and sighing at Trixie. “You’ll be back to Open Mic Night eventually, even if I have to physically drag you there.”

“Yeah, sure.” Trixie brushes off, having no concrete plans to return.

It’s not that the last Open Mic Night Trixie performed at was unpleasant; it was actually the most fun Trixie had had in a long time. It’s just that Trixie gets home and she’s _so tired._ She would have to change out of her work clothes, redo her makeup, and stay awake those few extra hours. It’s a lot of effort that she has been too exhausted to put in lately. In fact, Trixie has been too exhausted to do anything other than go to work and go home. Even on her days off, she stays in bed and watches Netflix.

She zones out as the conversation tapers off into other subjects. While nobody is tied to the mall at this point and everyone is free to return home, it’s very rare for Pearl, Violet, and Fame to simultaneously exist in the same conversation. It’s nice for everyone to be able to catch up.

But Trixie can feel her limbs weighing her down, a sign of a day well-worked. She checks the time on her phone to be sure she’s valid in her exhaustion; 9:45. It’s justified for a middle school teacher or county clerk, but not for a twenty-two year old student.

Still, she excuses herself from the table to return home.

 

-

At home, buried underneath her luxuriously fluffy duvet, Trixie holds her phone close to her face at the lowest possible brightness. She scrolls through her messages, ignoring the ones from her service provider about her data usage. The only new message is from Kim, who sent a series of sushi emojis, inexplicably. Twitter is similar; a few favorites, but no new followers. Trixie briefly imagines a life where her presence on social media isn’t staggered like this. One where she regularly updates, manages to keep up with the trends, and has a consistent stream of new followers. She checks her Instagram, and is pleasantly surprised to see a few new notifications.

**versace_baby** replied to your comment on **versace_baby** ’s post: “You wish, Mattel!”

**katya_zamo** has requested to follow you.

Trixie stops breathing. She nervously brings the phone even closer to her face, as if anyone else were there to shame her for snooping on Katya’s Instagram. She quickly taps on her profile which is, thankfully, not on private.

Trixie doesn’t know what she expected.

Her photos don’t follow any specific trend. While Aquaria had sunsets, gardenias, and selfies, Katya has… screenshots of Russian poetry, weird 4th century art, her order at IHOP, spiders hanging precariously on doorways; it’s all too unpredictable and eclectic.

In her pictures, Trixie can only catch little glimpses of Katya; her fingers when she holds up a 1979 G.I. Joe action figure, her semi-obscured face reflected in the glass of a picture frame, the tips of her toes painted red and buried in the sand. She rarely posts pictures that show her entire form, and those few that exist are group photos. Even then, Trixie has to squint to actually see her.

The only true constant in her page is her cat, Merlin, who makes up at least a fourth of all photos. She thinks Merlin must be an _objectively_ ugly cat, not discounting her own clear bias for dogs. She imagines this cat to be the result of a horrendous experiment to glue hair onto those hypoallergenic hairless cats. Its ears manage to make up nearly a third of its height, its eyes are an eerily omniscient yellow, and its narrow face comes down to a single, menacing point. Trixie makes it a rule not to trust a cat that has actual cheekbones, and this cat is a prime example of why it’s a rule to begin with.

Before accepting her follow request, Trixie nervously reviews her own profile. It’s all perfectly in balance: there’s an even amount of aesthetic pictures, pictures of herself, and pictures from important events and holidays. She thinks her profile is the peak of what someone’s Instagram _should_ like, so there’s really no reason to be nervous. Not that she’s nervous to begin with, obviously.

She accepts her follow request, and follows back.

Within a minute of being mutuals, Katya messages her a picture of the record player and the vinyl LPs nestled between a few quaint houseplants. Sitting comfortably on the turntable of the player is Merlin, who very much resembles a Gremlin after having been fed past midnight.

 

10:23 PM

_finally got it set up! really excited to play this while my cave-husband carves our family portrait onto the walls of our lovely cave-home!_

_o sry, i know ur preferred messaging platform is carrier pigeon, but i hope u get this anyways :/_

 

10:25 PM

_You really paid 250 dollars_ _to make shitty jokes_ _… and to let your weird-looking cat sit on it?_

 

10:24 PM

_it’s worth it when you look at me like you’re about to choke me out :)_

_also i think he’s handsome :(_

 

10:25

_I hate you & your ugly cat _

 

10:25

_what did merlin do to deserve this_

Trixie locks her phone and drops it onto her nightstand. Katya, even over text, is infuriating and can only be handled in small doses. Trixie can almost picture her grinning behind the screen, and it has almost the same effect on her as actually seeing it.

That night, she dreams of a forty foot tall, ugly cat asking her riddles from somewhere above the clouds and grinning down at her with eighty teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, my dudes ! i'm a slut for attention and feedback, so comment and message me on tumblr @gayforests !


	3. July Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trixie feels her brain, heart, and her entire vertebrae collapse into her stomach. She skips the first stage of grief and falls directly into anger.  
> “You invited Katya?”

Open Mic Night hangs over Trixie’s head for the remainder of June. Violet is very insistent she return for a comeback, but Trixie never truly commits enough to say yes. At most, she’ll give Violet a shaky  _ maybe,  _ followed by an apologetic frown that instantly negates any possibility of her showing up.

The fourth consecutive time she denies Violet, it starts to eat at her. She knows Violet isn’t just inviting her to make her feel guilty about her inevitable refusal; she genuinely wants Trixie there. While she may present herself as an otherworldly being capable of two emotions, maximum, she  appreciates the support Trixie provides through her burlesque act - even though she would fervently deny it.

It’s  that lethal combination of guilt and loneliness that leads her to The Black Orchid on a fated Wednesday night early in July. Upon first arriving, she wonders why she ever stopped going. She always underestimates the emotional weight of being at a gay bar, especially on a night dedicated to personal art rather than just getting as fucked up as possible. She’s sure on any other night, The Black Orchid may feel just as suffocating as any other bar, but Open Mic Night carries its own gentle and loving atmosphere.

Trixie shows up thirty minutes before the actual performances start, holding her guitar by its neck and filled with an over powering mix ture of excitement and anxiety for what  the night may have in store for her. She finds Violet sitting a few tables away from the stage but just perfectly in view of it; it’s one of those seats you have to arrive at least forty-five minutes early to get.

The moment Violet catches sight of her, she’s clamouring out of her seat to greet Trixie. “Wow, it only took Malibu Barbie four months to grace us with her presence once more.” Violet  grumbles, although the tight hug she pulls Trixie into seems to contradict her annoyed facade .

“I know, I know, it’s been awhile.” Trixie mumbles against  Violet’s shoulder.

The hug is quick, but sincere enough.  Even if a little awkward with Trixie’s guitar.

“I wrote your name on the sign-up sheet as soon as I got your text, by the way.” Violet assures her. “ You’re the one  _ after  _ the one after me, just like always.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” Trixie sighs out as she collapses into the seat next to Violet. Its their usual order; it lets Trixie panic about her performance through whatever act follows Violet , instead of during Violet’s act.  She hates the idea that anything other than her presence on stage could consume Trixie’s thoughts, and plans accordingly.

Trixie opens her mouth to launch into a long rant about the closure on I-405 that forced her to take a complex maze of backroads to get here, but she doesn’t have a chance to give it voice before she notices the plate of loaded nachos  sitting in front of Violet.

“You already got your nachos? Without the friend discount?” Trixie asks slowly.

Violet is  instantly struck with a look of terrible guilt as she follows Trixie’s sightline  to the greasy pile of chips, cheese, sour cream, bacon, and chives . “Oh, uh, no.”

Trixie narrows her eyes at Violet, but she refuses to meet Trixie’s gaze. Trixie, in that moment, knows she made a mistake coming. Knows that something is wrong, and it’s far more than her own mild paranoia.

“I got martinis and tequila shots, but-”

Trixie whips her head up to where Kim has  suddenly frozen in front of the table, looking like a child who got caught trying to eat a worm in  her mother’s garden. Trixie feels herself turn inside out. “Oh! Trixie! You came!”

Trixie experiences the full five stages of grief in an instant.

She can’t believe that Violet would invite anyone else to Open Mic Night, a sacred night between the two of them. Yeah, Trixie hasn’t been in awhile, but that doesn’t give Violet the right to just replace her like that. And she certainly can’t believe that Kim wouldn’t tell her she was hanging out with Violet. Especially after forcing Trixie through months of talk about how _Violet looks so good in red_ and _Violet could punch a baby in the face and make it look hot_ and _You know, I think Violet makes that ugly polo work_.

Even past the pure immorality of the act, Kim’s newfound presence makes Trixie so incredibly _nervous_. It’s very rare for her to play her guitar outside of her bedroom these days, which makes the anonymity of playing for strangers much more comforting.  She doesn’t have to face these people in her everyday life; at most, she’d see them once a week if she were more consistent in her open mic appearances. She would hate to mess up in front of Kim, and then have to face her the very next day knowing Kim’s opinion of her as an artist is forever tainted.

But, Trixie considers, she’s sure Kim would be kind and understanding if she  were to royally fuck up on stage. Kim rarely makes jokes with malicious intent, and this would be no different. They’ve been good friends long enough for Kim to know what’s fair game for banter and what isn’t, or at least for Trixie to be taken seriously when she requests that certain topics be untouched. If it were someone she didn’t know as well, it may be a different story - if it were  _ Katya _ per se, Trixie may not handle it nearly as well.

“I’m going to need one of those tequila shots.” Trixie says, instead of  voicing any of her anxietie s. Kim nods in understanding, sliding one of the shots towards her. “I can’t believe you invited Kim.” Trixie mumbles to Violet, knocking back the shot with a wince in a way that makes her feel like she’s been transported to a saloon in the wild west .  Kim doesn’t seem personally offended by Trixie’s comment as she settles into the seat next to her.  She  imagines Kim is equally as surprised by her own invitation.

Violet continues to stare down at the martini in front of her. “Uh. Yeah.”

Trixie looks at Violet.  Violet refuses to look back. Kim nervously looks off at the stage.

“What is it?” Trixie snaps at them. It comes out much more menacing than Trixie had planned, but  she  _ just  _ came to terms with Kim’s presence and she’s certainly not ready for another bomb .

“I also invited Fame.” Violet tells her softly.

It puts Trixie a little further on-edge, but she knows Fame’s intentions are always good. If anything, Fame will be the foil for her irrational tendencies. Or, worst case scenario, she may feel so bad that Trixie botched her set that she might just bake her a sympathy pie by the week’s end. And, if Trixie’s being honest, she misses her homemade buttermilk pie. “Okay. Kim and Fame. I can handle that.”

“And, uh-”

Violet is interrupted suddenly by a third presence at the table, “Oh my God, so sorry, I had no idea there was a closure on the 405, I had to take some crazy route to get here.”

Trixie feels her brain, heart, and her entire vertebrae collapse into her stomach. She skips the first stage of grief and falls directly into anger.

“You invited  _ Katya _ ?” Trixie bites, not caring enough that she’s clearly  within earshot and may take offense to this .

Violet turns to face her for the first time since Trixie mentioned the nachos, “Well if  _ somebody  _ messaged me before I already invited her, things might be fucking different, Trixie!”  Violet returns defensively.

Trixie can only scowl in response because, really, she knows it’s her fault. She was the one who refused to attend, forcing Violet to perform alone. It’s only fair that Violet invite her own support network, but it doesn’t make Trixie any less angry.

If she messes up on stage in front of Katya, she would never be able to face her again. She’d just have to quit her job, maybe even transfer to USC just out of fear that Katya might catch a brief glance of her walking through campus. Trixie cannot handle the idea of Katya having any leverage over her like this.

“You look nice tonight, Trixie.” Katya greets her, instead of a  _ hello _ or a  _ how are you _ .

Trixie frowns. Getting ready had been a full event for her tonight, especially since she rarely leaves the realm of simple work makeup and simple work clothes.

Her makeup had been an entire comedy of errors. It’s not often she gets to use her glitter eyeshadow palette, so she applied too much and spent too long trying to tone it down.  She made the wing on her left eyelid at least two centimeters longer than the perfectly sculpted one on her right eye, and ended up redoing it four times before they matched. She found out her favorite lipstick, the one her glitter eyeshadow choice relied on, had melted deep in her makeup bag and she had to settle for a shade just barely too light to showcase exactly what she was going for.

Even past makeup, finding something  to wear that was  comfortable  _ and  _ cute was an uphill battle. Her outfits have dulled in recent years, and Trixie isn’t sure if it’s the  terrible toll mental illness has taken on her or if it’s just the natural progression of her style. Tonight, it’s just a denim jacket that Kim embroidered roses onto for her nineteenth birthday and a t-shirt from Dollywood. If she were eighteen again, she’d have pull ed something out of the back of her closet, where everything bright pink and full of fringe has been pushed. But she’s not eighteen anymore, and will forever be in pain about it.

Trixie feels suddenly incredibly self-conscious.

Katya herself looks… good. Even if Trixie  would never let anyone know she thought it . Her hair is down for once, just teetering on the border of unruly. Trixie imagines if she were to run her hands through it, her fingers may get lost in curly tangles  and knots . But, God, she kind of does want to run her fingers through it.

She looks much different without the blue Apple shirt to brand her, much more organic and human. She’s wearing a baggy black mesh t-shirt and only a lacy black bralette underneath, which might be cute on anyone else, but Trixie thinks that it’s just downright obscene on Katya. She can  _ almost _ make out the soft pink of Katya’s nipples, and can  _ almost  _ make out what has to be the faint outline of abs through the sheer fabric. It makes her face flush in what she can only equivocate to embarrassment.

Trixie doesn’t respond, only looks down at her guitar propped against the leg of her chair. If Katya’s going to be an asshole and make a snide remark about how Trixie looks, she’s just going to ignore her.

“When is Fame supposed to get here?” Trixie asks instead.

“I lied about Fame, I just thought it’d make the news of Katya being here easier.” Violet gives her an apologetic smile, which is probably the closest thing Trixie would ever get to an actual apology from her.

“Nothing could make Katya’s presence easier.” She grumbles,  crossing her arms and adopting the posture of a little girl being asked to play with the annoying boy in her class.

“It’ll take a lot more to hurt my feelings, jellybean.”

Trixie scoffs. _Jellybean?_ She can’t tell if it’s meant to be a condescending term of endearment or an insult.

Kim pats her knee  out of sympathy , or maybe just to draw her attention away from Katya. Either way, Trixie turns towards Kim.

“It’s good to see you here.” Kim offers softly. “It’s good to see you anywhere that isn’t the food court or your cramped apartment.”

Trixie exhales deeply, feeling particularly defensive about the state of her social life. “I go out.”

Kim senses the prickliness of Trixie’s attitude, and quickly concedes for the sake of their night out. “I know you do.”

Trixie spares a glance back at Violet and Katya, who seem to be engrossed in their own conversation  by now . She looks back at Kim and speaks lowly, “Why didn’t you tell me you were hanging out with Violet? This kind of seems like a huge deal.”

Trixie will admit to having her feelings a bit bruised by this development. She may be no better than Fame in terms of sensitivity, though she may deny it.

“I was afraid I’d, like, jinx it or something if I told you. I would’ve been so embarrassed if the plans fell through or something. I feel kind of stupid now anyways; I didn’t realize she also invited Katya until I got here , and she mentioned that Katya should be on her way .”

“Aw, Kimmy.” Trixie coos softly.

“I didn’t think it was a  _ date _ or anything, but I thought it’d be nice to get to know each other alone. Not to say there’s anything wrong with Katya, obviously, I just -” Kim sighs frustratedly, cutting herself off.

“No, please, I am a full supporter of Katya-bashing.” Trixie assured her.

Kim rolls her eyes light-heartedly. “We know, you bitter bitch.”

Trixie’s mouth drops open in offense before she’s releasing a screeching laugh that would be highly inappropriate in a setting that wasn’t blasing 80s top pop bops.

“By the way, if you ever call me Kimmy again, I’ll skin you alive and make a lovely tank top out of you.”

“I knew I was treading on thin ice.” Trixie grins.

Staff members start to move around the stage, making last minute preparations as the bar fills up completely. Trixie’s thankful Violet came so early to get these seats, otherwise they may be among the  general crowd uncomfortably milling around on the floor of the small venue.

The show starts at exactly 11:00 PM, and Trixie is certainly please d by their dedication to punctuality.

“How’s everyone doing on this gay, gay night?” The MC asks, eliciting cheers from the crowd. “We have a great variety of performers for you all tonight! Once more, the management would like to stress that everyone just be fucking courteous and nice.”

Trixie gives Katya a pointed look. “She’s talking to you, specifically.”

Katya has the sense to look offended for a split second, before grinning. “Oh yeah? Me, and not the one with unresolved anger issues?”

Being the only thing that separates  Trixie and Katya, Violet looks back-and-forth between them nervously like a spectator at a tennis match. Trixie has half a mind to get up and show Katya what unresolved anger issues  _ really _ look like, but the other half of her mind remains sane and rational. She’s on a roll tonight; going out, socializing, performing. She’s not going to jeopardize the possible  _ I’m proud of you _ from her university counselor so early in the night.

She purses her lips and turns her attention to the stage, where the MC continues listing off rules.

The first  couple of acts are boring. There's a slam poet who, in a striking moment of originality, equates love to honey, cigarettes  _ and  _ a broken bone. Trixie tries not to judge, but there’s just something so painful about modern poetry. Or maybe that’s just the single course she took on poetics during her freshman year of college talking.

The next act isn’t terrible, it’s just boring. Trixie can only handle so many Ed Sheeran covers in her life before she withers up, and she’s getting close to her limit.

In the few minutes it takes to set up the third act, Trixie gets another shot from the bar. By the time she’s back in her seat, the MC has returned to the stage.

“Oh my God,” Violet breathes out.

“Is that -”

Trixie’s entire body stills.

Behind the MC, there are three very  _ clearly  _ underage girls on stage. There’s a short one in the middle who seems to have found the perfect fusion of goth and punk,  another off to the right with a  banjo -  _ a banjo, really?  _ -, and Dusty is towering to the left with a bass guitar in her hands.

“Is the entire fucking Palo Verde Mall here?” Trixie snaps, “Is Thorgy ‘gonna fucking pop out  with her violin? Is Phi Phi hiding in the shadows somewhere  waiting to perform  her slam poetry about punching babies ?”

“This is highly unfortunate for you, huh?” Violet pats her knee.

The MC leaves the stage, and the smallest girl in the center approaches the microphone. She fiddles with the tuner on the acoustic guitar strapped around her neck  briefly before leaning into the mic. “Hey, I’m Laila, that’s Vanjie on banjo and Dusty on bass. We’re Lizard Wizard, and we’re here to convince you to quit your day job and adopt a cat, or whatever-the-fuck.”

There are cheers in the audience as they kick into their seat, and Trixie is momentarily startled to hear Katya scream out for Dusty. She wonders if Katya knew about Dusty’s band, or even knew she would be coming tonight.

Trixie isn’t sure what genre this could possibly be - it’s punk, that much Trixie is sure of, just through context clues. Other than that? No fucking  idea . The amount of elements brought in seem jumbled to Trixie; the bass, banjo, and acoustic guitar  don’t sound like they should all be used in tandem, but still manage to  find a harmony together . Even the lead vocalist’s voice is strangely gentle for the content of this song, which seems to be all about eating fascists for lunch. Trixie doesn’t even understand  _ how  _ a banjo possibly fits into the punk scene, or how anyone outside of central Kentucky actually owns one.

Even through her confusion, Trixie feels a strange sense of pride watching Dusty shred it on the bass - although she’s not entirely sure what’s happening otherwise. She looks natural onstage with a guitar in her hand and an audience to cheer her on. She jumps in place, her short and curly hair bouncing along with her, and Trixie thinks that this is the sort of carefree attitude that she was robbed of as a teenager.  She cuts herself off mid-thought; she wouldn’t let her mind wander into The Self-Pity Zone while her kind-of-daughter Dusty is absolutely destroying the stage.

Katya’s head bops along with the beat that Trixie still isn’t even sure exists, and wonders if maybe her ears have just grown too old to catch it. When the song  inevitably  ends, Katya is amongst the loudest cheers, despite Trixie’s attempts to one-up her even in that.

Dusty catches her eye as they’re shooed off stage, and her face visibly brightens in recognition.

“Is she gonna come over? I want to ask her about the lyrical genius of rhyming cannibal with piss.” Kim asks.

The group tracks Dusty as she follows her band to a small table in the corner, unplugging her bass guitar and shoving it into the hands of her bandmate - Vanjie, as Trixie heard it. In the next instant, Dusty is bounding towards them.

“Guys! What’re you doing here?”

“Being legal adults in a venue that only serves and allows in legal adults.” Trixie responds pointedly.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. My name is Shannon Stone, I’m twenty-four, and I’m here visiting from Florida with my daughter.”

“Well, I think you were fucking great up there, Shannon.” Katya tells her.

“Awwww, thanks dad.” Dusty grins, enveloping Katya in a large bear hug. Katya cackles from somewhere beneath Dusty’s lumbering body.

Trixie, feeling particularly left out of the moment, speaks up, “Yeah, you were killing out on that stage! Loved the part of the song about making filet mignons out of the rich.”

Dusty gives her a curious look,  unfurling her arms from around Katya. “Really? You liked it?”

“Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I?”

Dusty shrugs. “I just didn’t think you’d be really into folk punk.”

Trixie wants to ask her  _ what the fuck folk punk is supposed to be _ , but she doesn’t for the sake of her own image with the youths. Katya looks at her smugly, like she clearly knows this is so far out of Trixie’s comfort zone. Trixie doesn’t have the time to be embarrassed about it.

“Dusty!” Suddenly, Farrah is directly in front of them, buried in Dusty’s side.

“Okay, but how  did  _ she _ get in? She has the face of a baby possum. ”  Kim motions exasperatedly towards Farrah

Dusty  tips her head towards the back of the bar. “Backdoor. Same for my bandmates.”

“You guys totally rocked.” Farrah mumbles against Dusty’s leather jacket .   Dusty blushes softly, almost unnoticeabl y under the dim lights of the bar.

“I respect your band and the message of the song, but I, personally, did not like it. It was hot garbage, personified.” Violet tells her  honestly.

“And I respect those views.” Dusty responds, not looking particularly bothered by Violet’s dissatisfaction.  If anything, she looks pleased with that description. “We’re going to go ahead and regroup with the band, I’ll  catch you guys later. But, really, you guys should see us play when Vanjie gets her drums fixed. It’s a whole other experience with drums.” Dusty offers.

“That sounds great!” Trixie enthuses.

“Yeah, we’d fucking love to!” Katya adds. Trixie side-eyes her, and wants to make a comment about how there’s no  _ we _ in this plan.

“I’ll keep you guys updated on our next gig.” Dusty promises. “See you on Monday!”

Everyone waves as Dusty pulls herself and Farrah off towards their table.

“So,” Katya starts, “Folk punk, huh?”

“Literally, what the fuck is that?” Trixie groans.

Katya wheezes out a laugh, shaking her head at Trixie, “God, you’re so clueless.”

Trixie scowls across the table at her. “I just don’t think it’s fair I put up with Dusty every day at work, and she  _ still  _ likes you more.”

“Oh, c’mon, she doesn’t like me more.”

“She called you dad just then.” Trixie points out.

“Yeah, but that was like… a joke.” Katya insists weakly.

“Didn’t you say Dusty calls you mom?” Kim chimes in.

“Yeah, but that’s different. She calls me mom when I tell her she shouldn’t go out and do drugs with her hoodrat friends - she calls Katya dad when she supports her destroying the government or whatever.” Trixie argues.

“Maybe you should support her destroying the government more often, then.” Katya suggests.

“If you don’t want to be her mom, then stop acting like her mom.” Violet suggests, as if it’s just that simple.

Trixie only huffs. She feels it to be her duty as an adult to keep Dusty committing particularly stupid acts of teenage rebellion. If Pearl and Shangela aren’t  going to recognize how stupid her ideas are , she  _ has  _ to if she wants Dusty to ever  pass a background check.

There are three other acts before Violet performs. None of them are particularly captivating, though the ventriloquist act was a very exciting change of pace, even if the jokes were flat and the puppet’s lips didn’t sync. Violet leaves halfway through the act to change into whatever costume she has planned for the song.

When the MC does call for Violet up on the stage, Kim’s hand is gripping Trixie’s knee hard enough to hurt. “Oh my God, oh my God,  _ oh my God _ ,” Kim breathes out.

Trixie doesn’t know how to comfort her.

Kim’s awe is entirely valid; Violet looks unreal on stage. She’s wearing a dress akin to a lingerie nightgown that Trixie knows will tear away into a bra, corset, and tiny saloon skirt - all of which Trixie helped painstakingly stone one Tuesday night  last October . It’s a labor of love, she supposes. Her hair is styled so meticulously into victory rolls and soft curls that if Trixie didn’t know better than to underestimate Violet’s skill with a brush and hairspray, she’d think she visited the  MasterCuts  next to Forever 21 to get it styled like that.

She’s doing the burlesque routine to All That Jazz that Trixie has watched her perform a thousand times before. Violet likes to alternate between obscure music from the 40s and show tunes from discontinued musicals, but All That Jazz is her ol’ reliable. Her makeup is dramatic, and it matches the costuming and choreographed music to perfection, a clear testament to the hours Violet has invested into optimizing this act.

It’s just as captivating as it was the first time Trixie watched it. Trixie’s pretty sure Kim has stopped breathing altogether, and even Katya is slack-jawed watching Violet. When the dress / nightgown is inevitably pulled off, the crowd gasps softly - including Trixie and other patrons who must have seen this before. It’s Violet’s inane ability to command a crowd that makes her such a versatile performer.

And she’s hot.

Kim’s fingertips on Trixie’s knee never loosen, only tighten during each reveal. The nightgown, the corset, even the bra falls away to a set of sparkling pasties, and Trixie pays the price of Violet’s performance as Kim leaves five dime-sized bruises on the side of her knees. When the song comes to a close, Kim makes a dramatic show of collapsing into Trixie’s side out of exhaustion.

“I don’t know how I survived that.” Kim mumbles against Trixie’s shoulder.

“Me neither, bitch.” Trixie agrees, patting her shoulder sympathetically.

Violet comes back to the table  only a few minutes later , once again in jeans and a tank top. Kim straightens up quickly as soon as she sees her, almost startled  by her presence.

Katya squeals in delight when  Violet settles back into her seat. “That was fantastic, I swear I was rock hard the entire fucking time.”

Violet laughs delightedly, clearly still living off the high of her applause. “If you weren’t I’d be incredibly offended.”

“You were great up there, Violet.” Kim rushes out. “Like,  _ really great _ .”

Trixie has to overcome the urge to cringe every time Kim talks to Violet.

“Aw, thanks Kim, that’s so sweet.” Violet brings a hand up to her heart and smiles softly.

Kim practically wilts. “Of course.” She returns, her voice breaking halfway through  _ course _ .

Violet doesn’t even seem to notice.

Trixie looks to the stage, where a gangly man tries to readjust the mic stand to his height . It suddenly dawns on her that she’s next. Trixie had almost forgotten she was even performing tonight, too distracted by the company present. In an instant, Trixie is struck with a terrible anxiety that settles high in her stomach.

The following act is a comedy routine, and it’s fairly good if Trixie were to judge it based off of the audience’s laughter. But she can only think about the chords on her guitar and the lyrics to the song she’s picked out, despite being sure she knows them all by heart. She’s hardly even touched her guitar since the last Open Mic Night, which was nearly _months_ ago. What if her fingers just can’t find the chord, or the key is wrong, or one of the strings snaps, or she mistuned it before she left the apartment - the margin for error is far beyond what she’s comfortable with.

When the comedian leaves the stage and the MC calls her up, Trixie is walking on shaky legs with a death grip  on the neck of her guitar. The bar is aflame with small talk as she climbs up to the stage, and she  wishes her legs would just snap in half so she would have an excuse not to sing . She pulls the stool  sitting at the back of the stage in front of the microphone, and readjusts the mic stand.

“You ready?” The MC whispers leaning away from the mic as Trixie settles into the stool.

Trixie swallows hard; is she? She holds her guitar closer against her chest, and  nods despite being  un sure if that’s the truth .

The MC turns to the audience. “Alright guys, now we’ve got a returning artist. Back from her looooong hiatus, give it up for Trixie Mattel!” She exits stage left, leaving Trixie alone with the audience .

Trixie fiddles slightly with her pick as she squints against the bright stage lights. She takes the moment of applause to gather herself enough to form a complete sentence.

“It’s been awhile since I was up here, y’all. You’ll have to forgive me for being a little rusty.” Trixie starts shakily. She swallows hard before continuing. “So, are you guys into Fleetwood Mac?” Trixie asks the audience. Half of the crowd whistles or claps in affirmation, and Trixie grins. She sees, specifically, Katya cupping her hands around her mouth to cheer, and Trixie wants to laugh at how predictable she is. “Okay, cool. Well, that’s not what I’m singing - that’s actually part of a game I like to play called  _ Where Are The Lesbians _ .”

It gets a good laugh out of the audience, and it builds Trixie’s confidence up a bit. She forgot how  _ great  _ it  feels to be in front of such a receptive crowd .

“I’ll actually be playing some Johnny Cash tonight.”  There are cheers in the audience, and Trixie is quick to point out at the crowd, “Aha! The gay boys are here tonight, I see!” And then, after a moment of laughter, “Just kidding, I know it’s still the lesbians.” The laughter amplifies by a tenfold, and Trixie feels so genuinely in her element. It’s probably the happiest she’s been in a long time.  It’s as if, all at once, her anxieties have dissolved into a confidence that she has certainly earned.

“If you know the words, and I can almost guarantee you do,  _ please  _ sing along.”

The audience is silent as Trixie strums out the opening chords.

 

_ Love is a burning thing _

_ And it makes a fiery ring. _

_ Bound by wild desire _

_ I fell into a ring of fire _

 

The audience cries out in recognition, and Trixie is absolutely delighted to hear them singing along to the chorus.

 

_ I fell into a burning ring of fire _

_ I went down, down, down _

_ And the flames went higher _

_ And it burns, burns, burns _

_ The ring of fire _

_ The ring of fire. _

 

Trixie’s voice cracks, but she hardly cares because she knows it’s nearly unnoticeable when half the bar is singing along. Her eyes stay trained on her fingers as she carries out a brief instrumental segment, knowing that the audience wouldn’t be as kind as to not notice if she entirely fumbled on this section. She lets herself look out at the crowd as she repeats the chorus again, watching as they  sing along. She can see Kim and Violet bobbing their heads along to the song, entirely clueless to what the words are. Katya, on the other hand, is singing along and clapping her hands to the beat. Given, she’s the only one clapping her hands and it’s not  _ exactly  _ on beat, but Trixie can’t find it in herself to be upset.

 

_ The taste of love is sweet _

_ When hearts like ours meet _

_ I fell for you like a child _

_ Oh, but the fire went wild _

 

The  voices from the audience aren’t as overwhelming as it is with the chorus, and Trixie is thankful that this song is about seventy-five percent chorus. “Stay with me here, folks!” Trixie tells the audience, launching into the refrain yet again.

It was a great choice for her, being as  out of practice as she is. There’s no way to panic and forget the words when it’s just the same three phrases repeated five times. The audience is receptive and wonderful, and it’s truly the best case scenario she could imagine for her performance.

Even yet, when she leaves the stage and returns to her friends , the anxiety rushes back full force and the adrenaline crashes against her ribcage. What if she didn’t do as well as she thought she did? Or, worse, what if she imagined all of that and actually just spent three minutes on stage just staring at them in silence?

Kim surrounds her as soon as she’s close enough, squealing in excitement. “Nice job Trixie!”

Trixie can only smile, feeling particularly overwhelmed by the mess of feelings swirling through her body.

“Ugh, you  _ have _ to come back next week, that was so good!” Violet enthuses.

“Maybe, maybe.” Trixie says shyly.

“You were  _ really _ great.” Katya says, with that shit-eating grin that makes Trixie feel like she’s seen Satan himself.

Trixie’s smile falters. She can’t explain the thought process that connects what Katya’s just told her to the instinct to assume Katya’s just being rude and sarcastic . “You don’t have to be mean, you know.”

Katya’s eyebrows jump up to her hairline in surprise, “What? I was just-”

“I want some more nachos; Katya, come with me to get some more nachos.” Violet announces, practically pulling Katya away by her wrist.

Trixie can only handle a few more acts before she’s weighed down by her own weariness. It’s barely even 1:00 AM when she leaves the bar, but she would scoff if anyone described it as  _ barely _ . Right now, it feels like she’s in the ‘crash’ phase of an all-nighter.

S he ends up lying face-down in bed later that night,  entirely restless . She tosses and turns, unable to just close her eyes and force herself into a deep slumber. It’s not an odd occurrence; oftentimes she’ll lie in bed for an hour before sleep eventually overcomes her.

Trixie sighs into her pillow. She resigns herself to her fate of needing to order a few shots of espresso in her frappuccino the next morning. She swipes her phone off her nightstand, scrolling aimlessly through Instagram as if it may lull her brain into submission . Almost as if timed, she gets a  direct message from Katya on  Instagram .

 

3:09 AM

_ hey trixie. i know ur probably asleep, but im sorry if what i said earlier came out as sarcastic! i genuinely enjoyed your performance, and u r very talented :) _

 

Trixie doesn’t want to admit that she overreacted, or that she read to deeply into Katya’s smile. But she can also understand when she’s in the wrong, and while she’d  _ love  _ to continue to hate Katya for it, it’s simply irrational. Still, a part of her brain wonders if even the smiley face is sarcastic, and  if s he’s  actually entirely rational in her hatred.

 

3:15 AM

_ It’s okay. You smile like a shark about to eat its prey, and it set off my fight-or-flight response. No hard feelings. _

 

3:16 AM

_ im definitely gonna be thinking about that analogy for awhile, but i guess its what i deserve huh _

3:17 AM

_ good night trixie :D _

 

3:22 AM

_ Good night, asshole _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kind of hate this chapter, but i have to post it so we can keep moving forward! thank you all so much for reading & leaving me feedback, it keeps my crops watered, my children fed, and my acne from flaring up. please validate me in the comments or on my tumblr @gayforests ! thank u love u. next chapter will be better i swear.


	4. July Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your hair is down.” Trixie says without thinking.  
> “It is down.”  
> “It’s nice.”  
> Katya grins, “That’s the first kind thing you’ve said to me, Trixie Mattel.”  
> Trixie scoffs and looks to the side. “Whatever. I’m really drunk and you’re stupid."

Trixie never did well in high school. She _hated_ school, in fact. There wasn’t a single aspect that didn’t make her want to toss herself from the third story window. It was a surprise to all her counselors that she even _wanted_ to go to college, let alone managed to get accepted into a school halfway across the country. But, as her acceptance letters would show, her outstanding test scores and her tear-jerking essay clearly held more weight for the admissions office than her actual class grades or GPA.

This is, obviously, what made her the most qualified to help Farrah with her college applications.

“You know, your mom is usually supposed to help you with these, or a counselor or something.” Trixie mumbles, hunched over Farrah’s laptop.

“My mom’s busy.” Farrah shrugs.

It’s a slow day for the record shop, as is often the case. There are only a few customers milling about, and so far they’ve only rung up about thirty orders.

“Again, you just have to review everything before I move onto the essay parts. I filled most of them out already. I’m just scared I misspelled something or got my zip code wrong somewhere.” Farrah tells her. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet and chewing her bottom lip incessantly.

Trixie reads over her information with as much diligence as she can muster. She reads through lines and lines of boring information about her parents’ educational history, residential information, grades, etc.

Trixie pauses at Farrah’s test scores. Not quite a pause, more like Trixie feels her entire body freeze.

“Are you okay? Is it okay?” Farrah asks through her teeth.

“Jesus _fuck_ Farrah, these scores.” Trixie breathes out.

“Oh,” Farrah breathes out, “Yeah, they’re whatever.”

“No, are you fucking kidding me? These are almost perfect scores.” Trixie feels like everything she thought she knew about Farrah was a whole lie. It’s not that she thought Farrah was stupid, she just -

Well, she didn’t expect this.

Farrah shrugs.

“No, really. Like, a thirty-four on the ACT? Literally nobody in my entire high school scored that high. Granted, we were a bunch of hicks, but this is insane.” Trixie insists.

Farrah still doesn’t seem impressed by her own abilities, and it’s driving Trixie mad. “It’s fine, I guess.”

Trixie groans breathily. “This is actual Ivy League shit, Farrah. Like you could _at least_ get waitlisted at Stanford with these scores.”

Farrah scoffs, “I don’t think I could get into Stanford.”

Trixie glares at her. “Okay, these are at least Princeton scores then, Farrah. These aren’t El Camino Community College scores.”

Farrah only whines softly, like she knows on some level Trixie is right, but she doesn’t want to admit it.

“This - This literally says you’re on track to be valedictorian. You’re going to be valedictorian and you’re gonna do to fucking El Camino?”

“Well, I -” Farrah cuts herself off by throwing her head back and huffing.

Trixie thinks it’s absolutely outrageous that Farrah scored so high, has a 4.0 GPA, and is her class valedictorian, but will only apply to the local community college. Not even a community college further upstate.

“Will you _please_ apply to just one other school. Like, a nice one. For me.” Trixie asks her softly.

Farrah makes a show of rolling her eyes and sighing in indignation, but agrees anyways. They end up applying to three more schools within the hour - USC, UCLA, and Princeton (as per Trixie’s insistence, and because Farrah refused to even try Stanford). Farrah pretends to be grumpy the whole time, but Trixie can tell she’s excited about the possibility of going to a nice university. It makes Trixie’s heart swell.

“Wow, my two favorite women in the world.” Dusty greets them, right on time as the digital clock on the wall strikes one.

“I’m applying to Princeton.” Farrah blurts out instead of a greeting.

Dusty’s eyes go wide. “Oh shit, that’s crazy!”

“Right?” Farrah agrees. “I mean, I still have to write the essays and get the application fee waivers from Mrs. Johnson, but all the information is filled out, and I’m on track for early admission.”

“That’s so sick, I’m so proud.” Dusty grins down at Farrah over the counter. “Where is Princeton, anyways? Like, NorCal? Utah?”

“New Jersey, actually.” Trixie responds, somewhat stunned at Dusty’s terrible geography skills.

Dusty’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh.” She breathes out.

Trixie feels like she just watched Dusty’s heart break.

“We don’t even know if I’ll get in. I probably won’t, you know, maybe they’ll-”

“No, no, that’s totally cool. You could definitely be a Jersey girl. I think you’d really fit in.” Dusty cuts her off with a sad smile. Farrah gives her a tight smile in return.

There’s a pregnant silence.

“So, uh, when are you gonna have me review your college application, Dusty?” Trixie says, trying to ease the conversation towards something softer.

“Oh, I’m not going.” Dusty shrugs.

“Oh,” Trixie breathes out.

Another pregnant silence.

“Not even, like, community college?” Trixie continues.

“No, I don’t think school is for me.” Dusty responds curtly.

While Trixie was able to convince Farrah to raise her standards, she doesn’t think she’d be as lucky as to convince Dusty to go to college too. Especially knowing how stubborn Dusty is. She may try as general application deadlines get closer - there’s still a full six months -, but she’ll leave the topic alone for now.

 

-

 

The lunch table is chaotic. It’s broken up into three separate conversations, of which Trixie is doing her best to participate in them all. Katya and Kim are talking about K-pop (is Katya somehow a master at all music genres?), Fame and Valentina From Bath & Body Works are talking about the latest YouTube beauty guru drama, and Dela is trying to get Trixie to help fake her death so she doesn’t have to resume her shift.

“No, you _have_ to understand what Vixen and Phi Phi are like! The whole time they’re working, they’re just glaring at each other. It’s so uncomfortable, they just stare and give each other threatening insults, but in… Like, a sexy way. I can't go back, Trixie. I can’t do it. You have to fake-kill me.”

Trixie leans in closer, “I have one tried and tested method. Before math class in middle school, I used to put pieces of lunch, like salsa, burger patty, and some milk in a ziplock bag and mash it all together. I would carry it all day until math class, and then right before I went in, I’d pour a whole mouthful into my little cheek pockets and spew it right at the door.” Trixie suggests.

“And that worked?”

“Every time. Spent that whole semester in the nurse’s office, and caused an FDA investigation of our cafeteria. Turns out: rat infestation. That’s not really related, but I think it’s pretty cool that I busted that.”

Dela’s mouth forms a small O, and she looks down at her pizza in contemplation.

“Trixie, Trixie, Trixie,” Kim calls, patting her shoulder to get her attention, “You stan Loona, right?”

“Uh, yeah, hashtag-stan-Loona.” Trixie responds with a shrug. She doesn’t actually entirely understand what Loona even is, but Kim gets a kick out of her saying that.

Kim turns to Katya, “You see! So, Loona is like… Oh, this is kind of complicated. There are twelve girls EXCEPT they’re all released individually and all have their own symbolism and lore. So, like you have to watch their videos in order or else -”

“Trixie!” Fame calls to her, “Liza and David’s break up last month: thoughts?”

“I don’t really keep up with vloggers-”

“You think the pizza and lemonade would work? Like, is that puke-ish enough?” Dela asks her. “Should I also get something from Wok Palace?”

Trixie takes a long, deep breath. “I think I have to go back to work, actually.” She tells the table. Trixie learned long ago that it’s much easier to just remove herself from stressful situations than try to juggle all the stressors. That was also the same year she failed algebra two.

“It was nice seeing you, Trixie!” Valentina tells her with her trademarked, award-winning smile.

Trixie pauses. She’s never sure when Valentina is being sincere, or when she’s just being fake-nice. Trixie’s pretty sure she’s going to talk about how uneven Trixie’s eyebrows are as soon as she leaves the table. “Nice seeing you too!” Trixie decides on. “You should stop by Spin City sometime, we could hang or something.” It’s somewhere just between being genuine and resembling a middle school yearbook. Valentina responds with an exuberant nod and a promise to pop by.

Trixie gets as far as the Victoria’s Secret just outside of the food court before she’s chased down by the reincarnation of  Steve Jobs.

“Trixie! Hey! Wait up!”

Trixie doesn’t wait up. If anything, she walks just a bit faster and pretends not to hear her.

“I can see you speed walking, Trixie Mattel!”

Trixie glances over her shoulder to see Katya breaking out into a jog, and she gives up any hope of escaping Katya’s slimy grasp. Trixie sighs and stops, just in front of Rue 21.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Katya’s sentence breaks as she pants, “I’d think you didn’t want to talk to me, Trixie Mattel.” She hunches over, resting her hands on her knees as she breathes deeply.

“Were those twenty feet you just ran too much?” Trixie asks.

“No, I just, uh,” Katya makes a vague movement with her hand, “Didn’t stretch, you know. Stretching,” A pant, “Is important, you know.”

“Mhm.”

Katya straightens up, leaning against the side of Rue 21 like a jock in a 90s high school movie might do. “I wanted to invite you to this birthday party for my co-worker.”

“Hard pass.” Trixie responds without missing a beat.

“C’mon, please? It’s a costume party, it’ll be really fun. And you could invite Kim, if you want.”

Trixie narrows her eyes, “But… Why?”

Katya’s eyes dart up towards the ceiling before responding. “Dax gave me a plus one, and I would invite Violet, but she was already invited… So, I figured I should invite you to the party.”

“But you said I could also invite Kim. That’s two people. You can’t bring two people as a plus one.”

Katya falters. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish before she finally forms words. “Oh. Well. Yeah, but uh...”

“Listen, Katya, as much as I would _love_ to hang out with you for a whole night, I’m going to… not do that.” She pats Katya’s shoulders, and quickly turns to head back to work.

“My cat will be there!” Katya calls out after her, but doesn’t bother trying to chase her down again.

“Don’t care!” Trixie shouts over her shoulder.

 

-

 

Trixie does end up going to the party, against her better judgement and her own personal interest. Katya had mentioned to Kim that Trixie refused her invitation, thus making Kim think her attendance was up for debate, which it totally _was not._

But then Kim offered to be the designated driver, and promised to reserve the new Jeffree Star palette for her as soon as they got it in stock. Trixie isn’t even entirely sure why Kim is so adamant for her to go to a stranger’s birthday costume party, but she imagines Katya had to have mentioned Violet’s attendance.

“Hi, you guys must be Katya’s friends!” A girl in a Storm costume greets the two. “Sailor Mars herself and… a 90s Barbie?”

“I’m Tonya Harding, actually. Like, from the movie I, Tonya. Or real life.” Trixie corrects her, awkwardly gesturing to her outfit, which she thought was an obvious nod to her deep maroon 1994 Olympics ensemble. Dax only gives her a blank look in response.

“That’s us!” Kim gives her a pointed look. “You must be Dax, happy birthday!”

“Oh, thank you! Come on in, come on in!” Dax moves aside for the two to enter.

“Be nice, you’re an obscure character from the 90s figure skating scene.” Kim whispers to her as the pass through the threshold.

“She’s not obscure! She’s a cultural icon!” Trixie whisper-shouts in response.

Kim rolls her eyes.

The party is mostly mall people and teenagers milling about. It suddenly makes Trixie nervous that Dax herself is a teenager, and she’s accidentally stumbled into a teenager’s birthday rager. Her suspicions are confirmed when she sees family portraits hanging about the mantle and senior pictures marked Class Of 2018.

She spots Katya in the back with a few other girls, and by her wild hand gestures, Trixie would guess she’s debating something. Her hair is down again, framing the third eye she’s drawn onto her forehead. She’s wearing a white bed sheet styled like a toga and cinched by the tie back of a curtain. Trixie passes the costume off as some obscure reference she doesn’t understand.

“Violet!” Kim cries from beside her, and in the next few seconds, Kim has abandoned Trixie and joined Violet on the couch with a few others playing some card game. Violet herself isn’t in costume, which Trixie thinks is a boring cop-out under the guise of being _too cool_ for a costume party.

Trixie should’ve seen the complete abandonment coming, but she didn’t expect it to happen as soon as they arrived.

She considers her options: talk to Katya, third-wheel in a game of Go Fish, watch the Harry Potter movie playing on the flat screen, dance with the seventeen-to-eighteen year olds, or play beer pong with the few adults she can see.

Trixie approaches the makeshift beer pong table in the back without much consideration. While Trixie hoped her approach may generally go unnoticed and she could slip in organically to watch them play, everyone immediately stops what they’re doing to turn to her.

There’s a moment of tension as everyone gives her a critical eye, and Trixie can’t seem to bring herself to just _say hello_.

The girl at the end of the table is the first to speak, “You’re the girl Katya always talks about, yeah?”

“What?”

“Yeah, she’s the one with the huge tits.” Another one confirms, and Trixie immediately recognizes her as the co-worker who accompanied Katya to her first visit to the record shop. She’s wearing a long-sleeved, purple dress with a Star Trek pin over her left breast, and Trixie almost wishes she knew enough about Star Trek to identify what character she is.

Trixie feels her cheeks _burn,_ both at being referred to as ‘the one with the huge tits’ and at having to face this woman again after her tantrum.

“Alaska, please, don’t bully this poor girl.” A woman, Trixie’s savior, waves them both off. On several levels, she looks like an ethereal being. With a blindingly white bald head and a turtleneck, Trixie wonders if she’s just willed her into existence. “You are Trixie, though?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Trixie responds, her rolling the hem of her skirt between her thumb and forefinger.

“You’re, like, ballerina Barbie?” The Star Trek girl - _Alaska_ \- asks.

“No, I’m actually Tonya Harding.”

Everyone releases a soft _oh_ , but there’s no look of recognition in any of their eyes. Trixie feels dumb for even coming.

“I’m Shea.” The first girl smiles, and a wave of relief washes over Trixie at the hospitality, “Or, alternatively, I’m Grace Jones, assistant manager at Apple.” Shea gestures to her costume, which Trixie hadn’t even realized was a costume. It’s just a black scarf over a short afro, and a leather jacket.

Trixie nods and pretends to know who Grace Jones is.

“I’m Sasha, I’m the GM at Apple.” Trixie’s savior introduces herself.

Trixie gives her outfit a wary look, and makes a wild guess, “And you’re Steve Jobs?”

Sasha laughs breathily, and looks almost embarrassed about her costume. “It’s kind of predictable, but it’s just so easy to wear a black turtleneck and a fake pair of glasses.”

Trixie laughs politely in response, agreeing.

“And we’ve met already.” Alaska says, curtseying slightly with her lilac purple dress.

Trixie laughs nervously. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Alaska shrugs.

Trixie looks down at her feet nervously. “Isn’t it kind of weird to be at your underaged employee’s birthday party?”

“Yeah, definitely. She just really wanted us to come, though.” Shea says for her and Sasha. “She’s really sweet, we’re just pretending she’s not plastered right now.”

“Oh. That’s really nice of you all.”

Everyone shrugs, not particularly moved by their own actions. Trixie can’t imagine Shangela even considering going to her birthday party.

“You want to play with us? We’re at an odd number right now, and could use a fourth.” Shea holds out a UCLA branded ping pong ball towards her, almost like she’s extending an olive branch.

Trixie takes it with a wide smile.

 

-

 

Trixie drinks a lot. She and Alaska were apparently the worst beer pong team to exist. Sasha and Shea managed to sweep the floor with them - five games in a row. Trixie tried to insist they should switch up teams, but Shea and Sasha refused. It dawned on Trixie pretty early that this was an actual strategy they must use quite often.

If Trixie were to estimate how many beers she’s had within the hour of playing beer pong, she would say she’s chugged at least twelve Natural Lights.

She spends most of her time wandering around and avoiding Katya. Although she may have invited her, there’s nothing binding Trixie to actually having to interact with her.

She sits with Kim very briefly, her head on her shoulder and whining about how badly she wants cranberry juice. Those previously playing cards have moved on to just watching Harry Potter together and making fun of every other line.

“Go get cranberry juice.” Kim says to her.

“But the kitchen is off limits.” Trixie whines in return. All the alcohol had been moved into the living room, and Dax had made an announcement that if anyone ate her Fig Newtons, she would kick them out of the party.

“Fig Newtons are off-limits, not the kitchen. Go get your cranberry juice, stupid.” Kim shrugs Trixie off of her, to which Trixie responds by completely ragdolling and slumping further into Kim’s side.

When, five minutes later, Trixie whines about juice again, Kim lays her hand on Trixie’s shoulder and shoves her as hard as she can. Trixie falls to her left with a cry, directly onto a girl dressed as a slutty Teletubby. Trixie mumbles an apology to her, too drunk to be actually embarrassed, as she gets up from the couch to drag herself into the kitchen. She gives Kim a dirty look as she leaves, but Kim pays her no mind.

Trixie pulls herself through the double doors of the kitchen, but stops abruptly in the doorway. Katya is standing at the counter, pouring herself some orange juice from a huge jug of Tropicana.

“Oh, hey Trixie.”

“Uh… ” Trixie feels stuck between her urge to run and the need for juice. “What… What are you drinking.” Trixie says finally, doing her best to keep her voice straight and properly enunciate every vowel. She doesn’t want Katya to get any sort of hint of how much she’s had to drink.

She ends up sounding more akin to an Amazon Alexa than a person.

“Orange juice.” Katya answers simply, screwing the cap back onto the jug.

“Mixed with what?” Trixie steps closer, to where she’s directly across the kitchen island from Katya.

“Just orange juice.” Katya tilts her head.

Trixie narrows her eyes. “Is it gin and juice? Are you making gin and juice? Will you _please_ make me some gin and juice, I think it’s so good and all I’ve had is gross beer.”

Katya’s curious look grows into a large smile. “You’re super drunk right now, aren’t you?”

“Noooo, don’t change the subject. You’re making mixed drinks and you won’t share because you’re mean.” Trixie pouts at Katya.

“You really want some?”

Trixie nods and whimpers. Katya motions to the red cup in front of her, and Trixie gladly rounds the counter to take it. “Thank you,” She mumbles as she brings the cup to her lips and takes two large gulps from it.

Katya looks at her expectantly.

“Oh my God, this is so good, you can’t even taste the gin.” Trixie tells her before taking another long drink.

Katya doubles over in laughter. “There is no gin! It’s just orange juice!”

Trixie frowns down at the cup. “Really?”

Katya, still laughing, can only nod.

Trixie pushes the cup back into Katya’s hands and crosses her arms. “I can’t believe you’d lie to me like that.”

“I literally told you-”

“I don’t listen to liars, sorry.” Trixie mumbles.

Katya raises an eyebrow at her, almost challengingly, as she takes back her cup. Katya hoists herself up onto the counter lining the wall, careful not to bump her head on the overhead cupboards. They stare at each other for a second, and Trixie thinks this is actually the closest she’s ever been to Katya, with just a foot to separate them. Or, rather, the closest Trixie has been without being tempted to assault Katya.

“Your hair is down.” Trixie says without thinking.

“It is down.”

“It’s nice.”

Katya grins, “That’s the first kind thing you’ve said to me, Trixie Mattel.”

Trixie scoffs and looks to the side. “Whatever. I’m really drunk and you’re stupid. What are you even supposed to be?” Trixie _deftly_ deflects.

“You have to guess.” Katya responds. She makes a show of motioning to the bed sheet tied around her body and the eye on the forehead, as if Trixie could have missed either of those things.

Trixie thinks for a moment, before pulling out whatever figures she can remember from Greek mythology. “Cronus, the dude who ate his kids.”

“How is that in any way related to having three eyes?”

“Did he not have three eyes?”

“Definitely had two eyes.”

“Are you sure?” Trixie giggles madly at her own inability to recall ancient mythology.

Katya joins in on her giggling after a moment, before swatting her forearm, “Come on, come on, you’re close!”

Trixie shakes her head and whines, but continues smiling. “I give up, I give up, you’re a super smart scholar and I am a lowly fine arts student.”

“I’m the Oracle of Delphi!” Katya says, and looks at Trixie like it’s supposed to be some huge revelation.

“And this is the part where I’m supposed to stick my tongue down your throat because you’re so smart and I’m so horny for Rome.”

Katya giggles into her cup of orange juice and nods exuberantly, “Ancient Greece, actually, but yeah, that’s exactly what’s supposed to happen now.”

Trixie laughs nervously and looks off to the side again, feeling a sudden wave of embarrassment that she can’t explain wash through her. She stares at the handle on the fridge next to them.

“So, you’re Tonya Harding, yeah?”

Trixie’s head whips up, and she must look just as surprised as she is. “What?”

“Your costume, is it Tonya Harding?” Katya leans just a little bit closer and speaks more slowly.

“Yeah! Yeah I am! Nobody else has gotten it all day!”

“I thought it was pretty obvious, you even untied the laces on your shoes. It’s a cute nod to Lillehammer.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, where Trixie stares at Katya with her mouth agape and Katya awaits a response..

“Are you crying?” Katya asks softly, and Trixie nervously pats at her cheeks to find out that… Yeah, she kind of is.

“Sorry, I don’t know why.” Trixie says, and quickly tries to wipe away her tears without ruining her makeup. “I’m just like… _really_ drunk. Like, if I played one more game of beer pong, I definitely would be puking all over you and your terrible costume.”

Katya extends her cup of orange juice towards Trixie. “You want more juice?”

Trixie looks down at the cup and considers it. And considers it. And considers it. “Yeah,” She whispers after far too long with a soft sniffle. She steps forward to take the juice, now less than half a foot away from Katya as she chugs the rest of their shared drink. She clenches her eyes shut to drink, which was clearly the wrong thing to do, because as soon as she opens them back up again, the world seems to have shifted five degrees to the left and she’s thrown off her balance.

She stumbles just slightly, and quickly grabs onto anything to steady herself. In this case, her fingers dig into Katya’s thigh, while Katya herself clamps her hand around Trixie’s forearm. The cup falls to the floor.

“You okay?” Katya breathes out.

Trixie looks up at Katya and blinks hard. Trixie will blame the five degree shift of the Earth for every soft and gentle thought running through her head about Katya; about how soft her hair looks, how gentle her hand is on her shoulder, how firm her thigh is. She forgets what she was crying about fourteen seconds prior.

“You’re really pretty.” Trixie whispers softly.

“You’re… really drunk, and if sober you knew you were saying this, she’d beat your ass.” Katya returns, and lets her hand fall from Trixie’s forearm back to her own lap.

“Yeah, I would.” Trixie agrees.

Katya looks down at Trixie’s hand on her thigh, and back up at Trixie with a silent question of _are you just going to keep that there._

Trixie is just going to keep that there.

“Sorry I’m so mean to you, like, all the time.” Trixie whispers.

“Mmmmm, apology considered.” Katya returns, but she’s smiling in a way that means she’s clearly not that bothered.

“I take it back, I’m not sorry, you deserve everything that’s coming to you.” Trixie sighs exasperatedly.

“No, please, I need your apology to continue on in my life. I might literally die if you don’t apologize to me right now.”

Trixie presses her lips together and shakes her head.

Katya’s hand shoots up to clutch her heart and she winces, “Oh God, it hurts. My heart is _actually_ going to break and I _will_ die.”

Trixie does her best to suppress a smile. She presses her lips together and scrunches up her nose in her best attempt at a poker face.

“You’re really just going to let me die on Dax’s kitchen counter wearing a scratchy bed sheet?”

Trixie snorts and nods, still upholding a vow of silence.

“Goodbye, cruel woman.” Katya slumps over and dies with a smile on her face.

Trixie breaks character, as if she had ever been truly in character, and her own laughter overtakes her. The five degree shift is clearly to blame when she leans forward to bury her face into Katya’s shoulder and giggle.

Katya’s shoulders shake violently against Trixie’s forehead as she tries to hold back her own laughter in favor of being dead, and it only makes Trixie giggle harder.

“You can’t laugh if you’re dead!” Trixie squeals into the bed sheet draped over Katya’s shoulder.

The laughter breaks through Katya’s otherwise brilliant portrayal of a corpse, and they both laugh hysterically against each other at the entire situation until neither of them can quite remember what they were laughing at to begin with. It’s not even particularly funny, there’s just something about the combination of Natural Light and Katya’s infectiously joyous energy. Trixie doesn’t move her forehead from Katya’s shoulder, even when the laughter has died.

It’s Katya who speaks first.

“What are you doing?”

Trixie doesn’t know.

She moves her head to rest her temple against Katya’s shoulder and look up at her. “Don’t address the situation.” Trixie grumbles.

“What do you mean?” Katya has to crane her neck to the left and down to make eye contact with Trixie.

“It ruins the mood.”

Katya snorts, “Oh, I didn’t realize we had a _mood_.”

“Bringing up the mood also ruins the mood.” Trixie, the sudden expert on flirting, says.

“I’ll shut up then, so we can relish the mood.” Katya looks straight ahead, and rests her hand on Trixie’s back.

Trixie still doesn’t know what she’s doing. In her mind, it never occurs to her to question what she’s doing, or even why she’s doing it. She never considers that Katya is her sworn enemy.

“I haven’t been laid in six months.” Trixie says, entirely unprovoked and without context.

“What?”

“Yeah.” Trixie lifts her head from Katya’s shoulder to pout directly in front of her instead.

“I, uh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Katya apologizes like it’s her fault Trixie wasn’t getting rawed every weekend.

“I can’t even make myself come these days.” Trixie continues. “Like, I get _so close_ and then it just… _poof_ , gone.”

Katya’s eyes shift around the kitchen nervously, aware that it certainly isn’t her place to know about Trixie’s masturbation woes. “Have you tried, like, toys or something?” She offers.

Trixie whimpers and nods.

“Oh,”

“Yeah,”

Trixie is close enough to Katya to be able to hear her swallow hard. There’s a long silence. Katya physically can’t make eye contact with Trixie. Trixie physically can’t look anywhere that isn’t directly at Katya.

“You know how I joked earlier about shoving my tongue down your throat?”

Katya hums in affirmation.

“I _really_ want to shove my tongue down your throat.”

For the first time since meeting her, Katya is entirely speechless. Her mouth opens and closes, her eyes wide and her mind stops completely.

“Is that a yes?”

“W-well - I mean, uh, yeah! Y-yeah, totally!” Katya stammers out.

Trixie rushes forward. It’s rough and messy and Sober Trixie would be embarrassed about the quality of her kiss. But Katya doesn’t seem to mind. Katya’s hands grip the edge of the counter, in fear that if she were to touch Trixie, the illusion would shatter and Trixie would disintegrate into a hundred blood-thirsty bees.

Trixie has the opposite fear. If anything, she wishes Katya would disappear and that this was all some grand mirage she conjured in her drunken, lucid state. Her hands roam Katya like she’s rubbing a cursed lamp. Her thighs, her hair, her face, her shoulders, her stomach - she’s restless.

Briefly, she wonders what she might wish for if a genie were to pop out at this moment.

  1. Can you take me back thirty minutes, to before I entered the kitchen?
  2. Can you make my hatred for Katya just a little bit more justified?
  3. Tickets to that Dolly Parton concert at The Wiltern would be pretty cool.



Trixie loses track of time and space. Her hands eventually settle, one back to Katya’s thigh while the other holds onto her cheek at a level of intimacy she knows she doesn’t deserve. She’s sure she tastes like shitty beer and orange juice, and maybe just a little bit of that mozzarella stick she ate before the party.

She’s not sure how Katya can stomach kissing her right now, especially when Katya tastes like orange juice and vanilla ice cream. Especially when Katya is so soft. She’s _so soft,_ and that’s all her mind can actually process. Her cheek is soft, her thigh is soft, her hair is soft, her lips are soft, her tongue is soft. It’s all a softness that Trixie doesn’t deserve in the least.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’s screaming at herself to stop.

The door to the kitchen swings open suddenly, and it’s like the fantasy shatters instantly. A heavy blanket of fog falls over it all. While Katya freezes entirely at the intrusion, Trixie just collapses onto Katya’s lap. She wails. She cries. She can hear Katya speaking, but the actual contents of her words are drowned out by _soft soft soft soft._

The door closes again and Trixie, with her arms desperately wrapped around Katya’s waist and her face pressed tightly against where she believes Katya’s belly button might be, continues to cry.

Katya’s hands run across her back and through her hair silently, but it only makes Trixie cry harder. She still can’t grasp time, can’t really grasp onto anything - concrete or conceptual. In this moment, she feels the crushing weight of her own impulse, her own loneliness, her own plain stupidity. A parasite has crawled into her and made home in her heart.

And Katya continues to comfort her silently despite all of it.

“I have to go.” Trixie hiccups after an unknown and indefinite amount of time.

“Okay,” Katya responds.

Her face detaches from Katya’s bed-sheet-toga with a string of drool. She doesn’t have the guts to look at Katya, just ducks her head and walks out of the kitchen.

She asks Kim to take her home shortly after that. Kim doesn’t ask any questions, just drives her home and lets her cry softly in silence.

Katya doesn’t message her that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's p-p-p-p-p-poppin?? a bit of a short and late chapter, but hopefully it was worth it! y'all can scream at me in the comments or at my tumblr, [@gayforests](http://gayforests.tumblr.com). i also have a twitter y'all can hit me up on if you want [@gayswampwitch](https://twitter.com/gayswampwitch). stay safe, my dudes !


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